Wit & Nipples 🍒

[Jerrieager]

Hahaha , the slip calling someone by another’s name

I had an Eva and a Lea and called Eva Lea once during sex

 

[Jerrieager]

https://postimg.cc/t1mdJ4gf

Good Girl - A Submissive’s Confession

(For adding atmosphere play: I Feel Like I’m Drowing - Two Feet)

Sitting at the edge of my bed, I lean back on my hands and let my head fall gently behind me, releasing a slow breath of relief. I needed this, an evening to myself, to be alone with my thoughts, to let myself fully feel. I am so full of desire I feel it spilling from my every pore, coursing through my veins and filling my body with a desperate temptation. I need this.

Time alone, where no one expects anything of me. Only here, in my room, can I sit still long enough to feel the ache I usually push aside and ignore until it becomes all too much. It makes me restless in ways that are difficult to explain; the feeling can be so overwhelming it often makes me feel almost melancholy.

This awareness of a lack of intimacy, of the empty space in the bed, the lack of a warm body to comfort those parts of me that are otherwise untouched. The awareness of the time I have spent waiting for someone to touch me with nothing but pure intention.

I press my hands into the soft sheets below me, the fabric gathering in my fists as I grip it subconsciously, closing my eyes and letting my shoulders rise and fall with the slight quickening of my breath. It is strange, isn’t it, how the body remembers when it has been without touch for too long. Each seemingly insignificant place, the inside of my wrists, the hollow at the base of my throat, the delicate skin along my collarbone, where fingers or lips might pause their travels, craves touch.

I loosen my grip on the sheets and slide my hands slowly across them, smoothing the silken fabric as though preparing a place beside me, and I find my fingers lingering on the space at my side.

This is where someone could sit.

Close enough that our knees would brush if either of us moved, and close enough that I might notice the warmth and readiness of their body before they even touched me.

But what I crave is not simply closeness. No. I crave the comfort that comes from the safety of feeling both worthless and worthy all at once. I want to be allowed the permission to be submissive.

To fully submit.

Submission, to me, is not weakness. It is the surrender that comes with trusting someone enough to let them see you, really see you. To see you without the armour you carry through the world, despite all the things you despise about yourself, the darkest parts of you. It is the rare comfort of placing your lonely, restless thoughts into steadier hands and allowing someone else to decide where their touch should fall.

In my mind I can almost feel hands closing around my wrists, firm enough that I could not pull away even if I tried. My own wrists shift slightly where they rest agaisnt the bed, and I lift them for a moment, imagining how easily another pair of hands might guide them, keeping them exactly where they should be.

I stand, slowly and turn around, my eyes resting on the items I have laid out at the foot of the bed. A flogger, a candle, a stock whip. My breath deepens as I get down on my knees, leaning forward.

In my mind I can feel it again: one hand tying leather around my wrists, drawing them together, and another hand tightening around my throat, restricting my desperate, needy breaths. The weight of a hand around my throat alone would be enough to remind me that I am exactly where I am meant to be. The thought makes my shoulders lower, my body responding to phantom guidance as naturally as though someone were truly standing there. I tilt my head forward slightly, instinctively yielding to the touch and a small moan escapes my lips and I reach for the whip.

My fingers brush the handle of the whip before closing around it. the leather is smooth and cool in my hand as I bring it forward, the length of it sliding softly across the sheets. My head lowers again, hair falling forward as I lean over the bed, my free hand gripping the sheets once more. I draw the whip back slowly, imagining a steady voice, leading me, telling me that I deserve to feel this. The first strike lands across my back with a sharp snap that cuts through the silence in the room and my breath catches in my throat, a sudden rush of sensation spreading through me. I can feel wetness pooling between my legs already and I close my eyes again as I repeat the action two, three, four times until I am out of breath. The sensation in my lower tummy is too much to bear, and for a moment I remain there, leaning over the bed with my eyes still closed.

My hand releases the whi,p which falls quietly onto the sheets beside me, and I shift slightly on my knees, my breathing still deep and uneven. I can feel my cheeks burning with shame and desire; the room feels warmer now, the air around me almost thick with my arousal.

My hand drifts downward almost absentmindedly, sliding between my legs. The touch is gentle at first, hesitant, as though I am rediscovering the warmth of my own body after having given myself over to the moment. I am oh so wet, my fingers coated in want and desire. I let my finger swipe gently across my clitoris, still imagining those unseen hands there, guiding me, allowing me this moment as though it were something earned rather than taken.

Good girl.

The words are not spoken aloud, yet it truly feels as though someone were whispering those words in my ear, assuring and approving. Still on my knees, I slide forward, my arm under my body, knees splayed as I push a finger in deep, feeling for the sensitive ridge that almost inevitably makes me explode. Pressing my forehead into the bed, I take the bedsheets between my teeth, biting down as the tension inside me rises. My hand moves with growing urgency, my breathing uneven, moans now suffocated by the material filling my mouth, letting the sensation build.

My orgasm breaks through me all at once and I fall against the bed, body shuddering, goosebumps breaking across my skin. For a small moment the room disappears entirely, blackness fills my vision as I feel the desire slowly leaving my system. I release the sheets, now damp from my mouth, and rest my cheek against the mattress, breathing deeply as the quietness of my room returns around me.

Behind me, there is no one.

No hands.

No gentle, domineering voice.

And yet the ache that had been building inside me has finally loosened its grip a for tonight, at least, it feels enough.

How beautiful is our self awareness, the needs that were always there , yet burried or pushed aside out of our sight our thoughts until some switch is flipped and it can no longer be avoided.
How lovely a photo to encapsulate my own mind’s focus as I read such a telling and very inspiring, inviting story , as I too am straightening my sheets folds

 

[Lost_Writer01]

https://postimg.cc/t1mdJ4gf

Good Girl - A Submissive’s Confession

(For adding atmosphere play: I Feel Like I’m Drowing - Two Feet)

Sitting at the edge of my bed, I lean back on my hands and let my head fall gently behind me, releasing a slow breath of relief. I needed this, an evening to myself, to be alone with my thoughts, to let myself fully feel. I am so full of desire I feel it spilling from my every pore, coursing through my veins and filling my body with a desperate temptation. I need this.

Time alone, where no one expects anything of me. Only here, in my room, can I sit still long enough to feel the ache I usually push aside and ignore until it becomes all too much. It makes me restless in ways that are difficult to explain; the feeling can be so overwhelming it often makes me feel almost melancholy.

This awareness of a lack of intimacy, of the empty space in the bed, the lack of a warm body to comfort those parts of me that are otherwise untouched. The awareness of the time I have spent waiting for someone to touch me with nothing but pure intention.

I press my hands into the soft sheets below me, the fabric gathering in my fists as I grip it subconsciously, closing my eyes and letting my shoulders rise and fall with the slight quickening of my breath. It is strange, isn’t it, how the body remembers when it has been without touch for too long. Each seemingly insignificant place, the inside of my wrists, the hollow at the base of my throat, the delicate skin along my collarbone, where fingers or lips might pause their travels, craves touch.

I loosen my grip on the sheets and slide my hands slowly across them, smoothing the silken fabric as though preparing a place beside me, and I find my fingers lingering on the space at my side.

This is where someone could sit.

Close enough that our knees would brush if either of us moved, and close enough that I might notice the warmth and readiness of their body before they even touched me.

But what I crave is not simply closeness. No. I crave the comfort that comes from the safety of feeling both worthless and worthy all at once. I want to be allowed the permission to be submissive.

To fully submit.

Submission, to me, is not weakness. It is the surrender that comes with trusting someone enough to let them see you, really see you. To see you without the armour you carry through the world, despite all the things you despise about yourself, the darkest parts of you. It is the rare comfort of placing your lonely, restless thoughts into steadier hands and allowing someone else to decide where their touch should fall.

In my mind I can almost feel hands closing around my wrists, firm enough that I could not pull away even if I tried. My own wrists shift slightly where they rest agaisnt the bed, and I lift them for a moment, imagining how easily another pair of hands might guide them, keeping them exactly where they should be.

I stand, slowly and turn around, my eyes resting on the items I have laid out at the foot of the bed. A flogger, a candle, a stock whip. My breath deepens as I get down on my knees, leaning forward.

In my mind I can feel it again: one hand tying leather around my wrists, drawing them together, and another hand tightening around my throat, restricting my desperate, needy breaths. The weight of a hand around my throat alone would be enough to remind me that I am exactly where I am meant to be. The thought makes my shoulders lower, my body responding to phantom guidance as naturally as though someone were truly standing there. I tilt my head forward slightly, instinctively yielding to the touch and a small moan escapes my lips and I reach for the whip.

My fingers brush the handle of the whip before closing around it. the leather is smooth and cool in my hand as I bring it forward, the length of it sliding softly across the sheets. My head lowers again, hair falling forward as I lean over the bed, my free hand gripping the sheets once more. I draw the whip back slowly, imagining a steady voice, leading me, telling me that I deserve to feel this. The first strike lands across my back with a sharp snap that cuts through the silence in the room and my breath catches in my throat, a sudden rush of sensation spreading through me. I can feel wetness pooling between my legs already and I close my eyes again as I repeat the action two, three, four times until I am out of breath. The sensation in my lower tummy is too much to bear, and for a moment I remain there, leaning over the bed with my eyes still closed.

My hand releases the whi,p which falls quietly onto the sheets beside me, and I shift slightly on my knees, my breathing still deep and uneven. I can feel my cheeks burning with shame and desire; the room feels warmer now, the air around me almost thick with my arousal.

My hand drifts downward almost absentmindedly, sliding between my legs. The touch is gentle at first, hesitant, as though I am rediscovering the warmth of my own body after having given myself over to the moment. I am oh so wet, my fingers coated in want and desire. I let my finger swipe gently across my clitoris, still imagining those unseen hands there, guiding me, allowing me this moment as though it were something earned rather than taken.

Good girl.

The words are not spoken aloud, yet it truly feels as though someone were whispering those words in my ear, assuring and approving. Still on my knees, I slide forward, my arm under my body, knees splayed as I push a finger in deep, feeling for the sensitive ridge that almost inevitably makes me explode. Pressing my forehead into the bed, I take the bedsheets between my teeth, biting down as the tension inside me rises. My hand moves with growing urgency, my breathing uneven, moans now suffocated by the material filling my mouth, letting the sensation build.

My orgasm breaks through me all at once and I fall against the bed, body shuddering, goosebumps breaking across my skin. For a small moment the room disappears entirely, blackness fills my vision as I feel the desire slowly leaving my system. I release the sheets, now damp from my mouth, and rest my cheek against the mattress, breathing deeply as the quietness of my room returns around me.

Behind me, there is no one.

No hands.

No gentle, domineering voice.

And yet the ache that had been building inside me has finally loosened its grip an for tonight, at least, it feels enough.

The more I read this, the more I love it. So much in here to unpack if you know what you’re looking for. So much to understand if you know how to read it.

Thank you again for this, Dopabean.

 

[GallantWriter]

Evening ladies and gentleman!

HAPPY FRIDAY!

How is everyone doing?

I… wrote something today, a little short… would anyone be interested in reading?

I'd so love to read it. Can help with edits or anything else too, if need be.

 

[NemoNautilus]

https://postimg.cc/t1mdJ4gf

Good Girl - A Submissive’s Confession

(For adding atmosphere play: I Feel Like I’m Drowing - Two Feet)

Sitting at the edge of my bed, I lean back on my hands and let my head fall gently behind me, releasing a slow breath of relief. I needed this, an evening to myself, to be alone with my thoughts, to let myself fully feel. I am so full of desire I feel it spilling from my every pore, coursing through my veins and filling my body with a desperate temptation. I need this.

Time alone, where no one expects anything of me. Only here, in my room, can I sit still long enough to feel the ache I usually push aside and ignore until it becomes all too much. It makes me restless in ways that are difficult to explain; the feeling can be so overwhelming it often makes me feel almost melancholy.

This awareness of a lack of intimacy, of the empty space in the bed, the lack of a warm body to comfort those parts of me that are otherwise untouched. The awareness of the time I have spent waiting for someone to touch me with nothing but pure intention.

I press my hands into the soft sheets below me, the fabric gathering in my fists as I grip it subconsciously, closing my eyes and letting my shoulders rise and fall with the slight quickening of my breath. It is strange, isn’t it, how the body remembers when it has been without touch for too long. Each seemingly insignificant place, the inside of my wrists, the hollow at the base of my throat, the delicate skin along my collarbone, where fingers or lips might pause their travels, craves touch.

I loosen my grip on the sheets and slide my hands slowly across them, smoothing the silken fabric as though preparing a place beside me, and I find my fingers lingering on the space at my side.

This is where someone could sit.

Close enough that our knees would brush if either of us moved, and close enough that I might notice the warmth and readiness of their body before they even touched me.

But what I crave is not simply closeness. No. I crave the comfort that comes from the safety of feeling both worthless and worthy all at once. I want to be allowed the permission to be submissive.

To fully submit.

Submission, to me, is not weakness. It is the surrender that comes with trusting someone enough to let them see you, really see you. To see you without the armour you carry through the world, despite all the things you despise about yourself, the darkest parts of you. It is the rare comfort of placing your lonely, restless thoughts into steadier hands and allowing someone else to decide where their touch should fall.

In my mind I can almost feel hands closing around my wrists, firm enough that I could not pull away even if I tried. My own wrists shift slightly where they rest agaisnt the bed, and I lift them for a moment, imagining how easily another pair of hands might guide them, keeping them exactly where they should be.

I stand, slowly and turn around, my eyes resting on the items I have laid out at the foot of the bed. A flogger, a candle, a stock whip. My breath deepens as I get down on my knees, leaning forward.

In my mind I can feel it again: one hand tying leather around my wrists, drawing them together, and another hand tightening around my throat, restricting my desperate, needy breaths. The weight of a hand around my throat alone would be enough to remind me that I am exactly where I am meant to be. The thought makes my shoulders lower, my body responding to phantom guidance as naturally as though someone were truly standing there. I tilt my head forward slightly, instinctively yielding to the touch and a small moan escapes my lips and I reach for the whip.

My fingers brush the handle of the whip before closing around it. the leather is smooth and cool in my hand as I bring it forward, the length of it sliding softly across the sheets. My head lowers again, hair falling forward as I lean over the bed, my free hand gripping the sheets once more. I draw the whip back slowly, imagining a steady voice, leading me, telling me that I deserve to feel this. The first strike lands across my back with a sharp snap that cuts through the silence in the room and my breath catches in my throat, a sudden rush of sensation spreading through me. I can feel wetness pooling between my legs already and I close my eyes again as I repeat the action two, three, four times until I am out of breath. The sensation in my lower tummy is too much to bear, and for a moment I remain there, leaning over the bed with my eyes still closed.

My hand releases the whi,p which falls quietly onto the sheets beside me, and I shift slightly on my knees, my breathing still deep and uneven. I can feel my cheeks burning with shame and desire; the room feels warmer now, the air around me almost thick with my arousal.

My hand drifts downward almost absentmindedly, sliding between my legs. The touch is gentle at first, hesitant, as though I am rediscovering the warmth of my own body after having given myself over to the moment. I am oh so wet, my fingers coated in want and desire. I let my finger swipe gently across my clitoris, still imagining those unseen hands there, guiding me, allowing me this moment as though it were something earned rather than taken.

Good girl.

The words are not spoken aloud, yet it truly feels as though someone were whispering those words in my ear, assuring and approving. Still on my knees, I slide forward, my arm under my body, knees splayed as I push a finger in deep, feeling for the sensitive ridge that almost inevitably makes me explode. Pressing my forehead into the bed, I take the bedsheets between my teeth, biting down as the tension inside me rises. My hand moves with growing urgency, my breathing uneven, moans now suffocated by the material filling my mouth, letting the sensation build.

My orgasm breaks through me all at once and I fall against the bed, body shuddering, goosebumps breaking across my skin. For a small moment the room disappears entirely, blackness fills my vision as I feel the desire slowly leaving my system. I release the sheets, now damp from my mouth, and rest my cheek against the mattress, breathing deeply as the quietness of my room returns around me.

Behind me, there is no one.

No hands.

No gentle, domineering voice.

And yet the ache that had been building inside me has finally loosened its grip a for tonight, at least, it feels enough.

Good golly, you’re hot!

 

[Quimpossibility]

Good morning everyone!

https://postimg.cc/BLDgmKgx

Black coffee in hand, sat outside smoking a cigarette and beginning Louie Theroux’s new doc: Inside The Manosphere… has anyone had a watch of it yet?

View attachment 2603011

No. I am sure the clowns he interviews are every bit as damaged and horrible as has been advertised.

 

[juttjaw]

I had an Eva and a Lea and called Eva Lea once during sex

Pro Tip:
Never use names.
I've made it a habit.

 

[M4titties]

Nips....perked up and normal..........in a cycle
https://ibb.co/nqHmtqHS
https://ibb.co/mpdRFQG
https://ibb.co/x8dp8V8k
https://ibb.co/7xK9RP8R
66 yr old Nips photographed by 68 yr old Hub

Not the place for this. Post it somewhere else.

 

[Apollo96]

https://postimg.cc/t1mdJ4gf

Oh my......

 

[Apollo96]

Good morning everyone!

https://postimg.cc/BLDgmKgx

Black coffee in hand, sat outside smoking a cigarette and beginning Louie Theroux’s new doc: Inside The Manosphere… has anyone had a watch of it yet?

View attachment 2603011

Not yet, but its on my list!
I listened to a podcast about the Manosphere not too long ago so am intrigued to hear his take

 

[jeffreyx344]

Hey you!


Face you say?… this is from my London trip

https://postimg.cc/5j7tF4rX

Wow! You’re gorgeous!

 

[jacinta4]

Good morning everyone!

https://postimg.cc/BLDgmKgx

Black coffee in hand, sat outside smoking a cigarette and beginning Louie Theroux’s new doc: Inside The Manosphere… has anyone had a watch of it yet?

View attachment 2603011

Cuteee girl! So brave haha!
new here, but do you ever share action shots?!

Also, what’s your number 1 kink you can’t get enough of?

 

[Cybmorg]

Good morning everyone!

https://postimg.cc/BLDgmKgx

Black coffee in hand, sat outside smoking a cigarette and beginning Louie Theroux’s new doc: Inside The Manosphere… has anyone had a watch of it yet?

View attachment 2603011

Yeah I watched it - utterly embarrassing

 

[Japansurfer]

Good morning everyone!

https://postimg.cc/BLDgmKgx

Black coffee in hand, sat outside smoking a cigarette and beginning Louie Theroux’s new doc: Inside The Manosphere… has anyone had a watch of it yet?

View attachment 2603011

Belated happy Saturday!!! Was certainly a nice weekend out and about, hope you made full use of the vitamin D - it’s been a while.

 

[Mickyb9669]

Belated happy Saturday!!! Was certainly a nice weekend out and about, hope you made full use of the vitamin D - it’s been a while.

Wow youve certainly brightened up my dull day '
stunning photo and georgeous tits. Mmm those luscious kissable lips.

 

[BobbyandtheCabin]

https://postimg.cc/t1mdJ4gf

Good Girl - A Submissive’s Confession

(For adding atmosphere play: I Feel Like I’m Drowing - Two Feet)

Sitting at the edge of my bed, I lean back on my hands and let my head fall gently behind me, releasing a slow breath of relief. I needed this, an evening to myself, to be alone with my thoughts, to let myself fully feel. I am so full of desire I feel it spilling from my every pore, coursing through my veins and filling my body with a desperate temptation. I need this.

Time alone, where no one expects anything of me. Only here, in my room, can I sit still long enough to feel the ache I usually push aside and ignore until it becomes all too much. It makes me restless in ways that are difficult to explain; the feeling can be so overwhelming it often makes me feel almost melancholy.

This awareness of a lack of intimacy, of the empty space in the bed, the lack of a warm body to comfort those parts of me that are otherwise untouched. The awareness of the time I have spent waiting for someone to touch me with nothing but pure intention.

I press my hands into the soft sheets below me, the fabric gathering in my fists as I grip it subconsciously, closing my eyes and letting my shoulders rise and fall with the slight quickening of my breath. It is strange, isn’t it, how the body remembers when it has been without touch for too long. Each seemingly insignificant place, the inside of my wrists, the hollow at the base of my throat, the delicate skin along my collarbone, where fingers or lips might pause their travels, craves touch.

I loosen my grip on the sheets and slide my hands slowly across them, smoothing the silken fabric as though preparing a place beside me, and I find my fingers lingering on the space at my side.

This is where someone could sit.

Close enough that our knees would brush if either of us moved, and close enough that I might notice the warmth and readiness of their body before they even touched me.

But what I crave is not simply closeness. No. I crave the comfort that comes from the safety of feeling both worthless and worthy all at once. I want to be allowed the permission to be submissive.

To fully submit.

Submission, to me, is not weakness. It is the surrender that comes with trusting someone enough to let them see you, really see you. To see you without the armour you carry through the world, despite all the things you despise about yourself, the darkest parts of you. It is the rare comfort of placing your lonely, restless thoughts into steadier hands and allowing someone else to decide where their touch should fall.

In my mind I can almost feel hands closing around my wrists, firm enough that I could not pull away even if I tried. My own wrists shift slightly where they rest agaisnt the bed, and I lift them for a moment, imagining how easily another pair of hands might guide them, keeping them exactly where they should be.

I stand, slowly and turn around, my eyes resting on the items I have laid out at the foot of the bed. A flogger, a candle, a stock whip. My breath deepens as I get down on my knees, leaning forward.

In my mind I can feel it again: one hand tying leather around my wrists, drawing them together, and another hand tightening around my throat, restricting my desperate, needy breaths. The weight of a hand around my throat alone would be enough to remind me that I am exactly where I am meant to be. The thought makes my shoulders lower, my body responding to phantom guidance as naturally as though someone were truly standing there. I tilt my head forward slightly, instinctively yielding to the touch and a small moan escapes my lips and I reach for the whip.

My fingers brush the handle of the whip before closing around it. the leather is smooth and cool in my hand as I bring it forward, the length of it sliding softly across the sheets. My head lowers again, hair falling forward as I lean over the bed, my free hand gripping the sheets once more. I draw the whip back slowly, imagining a steady voice, leading me, telling me that I deserve to feel this. The first strike lands across my back with a sharp snap that cuts through the silence in the room and my breath catches in my throat, a sudden rush of sensation spreading through me. I can feel wetness pooling between my legs already and I close my eyes again as I repeat the action two, three, four times until I am out of breath. The sensation in my lower tummy is too much to bear, and for a moment I remain there, leaning over the bed with my eyes still closed.

My hand releases the whi,p which falls quietly onto the sheets beside me, and I shift slightly on my knees, my breathing still deep and uneven. I can feel my cheeks burning with shame and desire; the room feels warmer now, the air around me almost thick with my arousal.

My hand drifts downward almost absentmindedly, sliding between my legs. The touch is gentle at first, hesitant, as though I am rediscovering the warmth of my own body after having given myself over to the moment. I am oh so wet, my fingers coated in want and desire. I let my finger swipe gently across my clitoris, still imagining those unseen hands there, guiding me, allowing me this moment as though it were something earned rather than taken.

Good girl.

The words are not spoken aloud, yet it truly feels as though someone were whispering those words in my ear, assuring and approving. Still on my knees, I slide forward, my arm under my body, knees splayed as I push a finger in deep, feeling for the sensitive ridge that almost inevitably makes me explode. Pressing my forehead into the bed, I take the bedsheets between my teeth, biting down as the tension inside me rises. My hand moves with growing urgency, my breathing uneven, moans now suffocated by the material filling my mouth, letting the sensation build.

My orgasm breaks through me all at once and I fall against the bed, body shuddering, goosebumps breaking across my skin. For a small moment the room disappears entirely, blackness fills my vision as I feel the desire slowly leaving my system. I release the sheets, now damp from my mouth, and rest my cheek against the mattress, breathing deeply as the quietness of my room returns around me.

Behind me, there is no one.

No hands.

No gentle, domineering voice.

And yet the ache that had been building inside me has finally loosened its grip an for tonight, at least, it feels enough.

.
And anything where the hair gets a look-in is a winner to me

 

[Japansurfer]

Wow youve certainly brightened up my dull day '
stunning photo and georgeous tits. Mmm those luscious kissable lips.

Thanks didn’t realise I would have such an impact on you.

 

[Mickyb9669]

Good morning everyone!

https://postimg.cc/BLDgmKgx

Black coffee in hand, sat outside smoking a cigarette and beginning Louie Theroux’s new doc: Inside The Manosphere… has anyone had a watch of it yet?

View attachment 2603011

Wow seriously sexy stunninhg breasts and lusious lips sooo tempting.

 

[jeffreyx344]

Good morning everyone!

https://postimg.cc/BLDgmKgx

Black coffee in hand, sat outside smoking a cigarette and beginning Louie Theroux’s new doc: Inside The Manosphere… has anyone had a watch of it yet?

View attachment 2603011

wow! you make it easy to “rise” and shine! What a pic!! Winner!

 

[Mickyb9669]

wow! you make it easy to “rise” and shine! What a pic!! Winner!

Stunningly beautiful

 

[SpicyBean99]

Morning guys, Bye guys!

I have an assignment due to submit by 12 tomorrow so I’ll be offline BUT I submitted Good Girl and it’s been posted (it’s probably my shortest story yet)

I really appreciate the likes and comments you guys leave so if you could maybeeee go and show it some love? It really does give me motivation to keep writing and posting!

Love and Hugs,

Spicy

 

[Japansurfer]

Morning guys, Bye guys!

I have an assignment due to submit by 12 tomorrow so I’ll be offline BUT I submitted Good Girl and it’s been posted (it’s probably my shortest story yet)

I really appreciate the likes and comments you guys leave so if you could maybeeee go and show it some love? It really does give me motivation to keep writing and posting!

Love and Hugs,

Spicy

Good luck!

 

[Mickyb9669]

Morning guys, Bye guys!

I have an assignment due to submit by 12 tomorrow so I’ll be offline BUT I submitted Good Girl and it’s been posted (it’s probably my shortest story yet)

I really appreciate the likes and comments you guys leave so if you could maybeeee go and show it some love? It really does give me motivation to keep writing and posting!

Love and Hugs,

Spicy

Best wishes with you assigment. Love yo too

 

[pantyboidoe]

https://postimg.cc/t1mdJ4gf

Good Girl - A Submissive’s Confession

(For adding atmosphere play: I Feel Like I’m Drowing - Two Feet)

Sitting at the edge of my bed, I lean back on my hands and let my head fall gently behind me, releasing a slow breath of relief. I needed this, an evening to myself, to be alone with my thoughts, to let myself fully feel. I am so full of desire I feel it spilling from my every pore, coursing through my veins and filling my body with a desperate temptation. I need this.

Time alone, where no one expects anything of me. Only here, in my room, can I sit still long enough to feel the ache I usually push aside and ignore until it becomes all too much. It makes me restless in ways that are difficult to explain; the feeling can be so overwhelming it often makes me feel almost melancholy.

This awareness of a lack of intimacy, of the empty space in the bed, the lack of a warm body to comfort those parts of me that are otherwise untouched. The awareness of the time I have spent waiting for someone to touch me with nothing but pure intention.

I press my hands into the soft sheets below me, the fabric gathering in my fists as I grip it subconsciously, closing my eyes and letting my shoulders rise and fall with the slight quickening of my breath. It is strange, isn’t it, how the body remembers when it has been without touch for too long. Each seemingly insignificant place, the inside of my wrists, the hollow at the base of my throat, the delicate skin along my collarbone, where fingers or lips might pause their travels, craves touch.

I loosen my grip on the sheets and slide my hands slowly across them, smoothing the silken fabric as though preparing a place beside me, and I find my fingers lingering on the space at my side.

This is where someone could sit.

Close enough that our knees would brush if either of us moved, and close enough that I might notice the warmth and readiness of their body before they even touched me.

But what I crave is not simply closeness. No. I crave the comfort that comes from the safety of feeling both worthless and worthy all at once. I want to be allowed the permission to be submissive.

To fully submit.

Submission, to me, is not weakness. It is the surrender that comes with trusting someone enough to let them see you, really see you. To see you without the armour you carry through the world, despite all the things you despise about yourself, the darkest parts of you. It is the rare comfort of placing your lonely, restless thoughts into steadier hands and allowing someone else to decide where their touch should fall.

In my mind I can almost feel hands closing around my wrists, firm enough that I could not pull away even if I tried. My own wrists shift slightly where they rest agaisnt the bed, and I lift them for a moment, imagining how easily another pair of hands might guide them, keeping them exactly where they should be.

I stand, slowly and turn around, my eyes resting on the items I have laid out at the foot of the bed. A flogger, a candle, a stock whip. My breath deepens as I get down on my knees, leaning forward.

In my mind I can feel it again: one hand tying leather around my wrists, drawing them together, and another hand tightening around my throat, restricting my desperate, needy breaths. The weight of a hand around my throat alone would be enough to remind me that I am exactly where I am meant to be. The thought makes my shoulders lower, my body responding to phantom guidance as naturally as though someone were truly standing there. I tilt my head forward slightly, instinctively yielding to the touch and a small moan escapes my lips and I reach for the whip.

My fingers brush the handle of the whip before closing around it. the leather is smooth and cool in my hand as I bring it forward, the length of it sliding softly across the sheets. My head lowers again, hair falling forward as I lean over the bed, my free hand gripping the sheets once more. I draw the whip back slowly, imagining a steady voice, leading me, telling me that I deserve to feel this. The first strike lands across my back with a sharp snap that cuts through the silence in the room and my breath catches in my throat, a sudden rush of sensation spreading through me. I can feel wetness pooling between my legs already and I close my eyes again as I repeat the action two, three, four times until I am out of breath. The sensation in my lower tummy is too much to bear, and for a moment I remain there, leaning over the bed with my eyes still closed.

My hand releases the whi,p which falls quietly onto the sheets beside me, and I shift slightly on my knees, my breathing still deep and uneven. I can feel my cheeks burning with shame and desire; the room feels warmer now, the air around me almost thick with my arousal.

My hand drifts downward almost absentmindedly, sliding between my legs. The touch is gentle at first, hesitant, as though I am rediscovering the warmth of my own body after having given myself over to the moment. I am oh so wet, my fingers coated in want and desire. I let my finger swipe gently across my clitoris, still imagining those unseen hands there, guiding me, allowing me this moment as though it were something earned rather than taken.

Good girl.

The words are not spoken aloud, yet it truly feels as though someone were whispering those words in my ear, assuring and approving. Still on my knees, I slide forward, my arm under my body, knees splayed as I push a finger in deep, feeling for the sensitive ridge that almost inevitably makes me explode. Pressing my forehead into the bed, I take the bedsheets between my teeth, biting down as the tension inside me rises. My hand moves with growing urgency, my breathing uneven, moans now suffocated by the material filling my mouth, letting the sensation build.

My orgasm breaks through me all at once and I fall against the bed, body shuddering, goosebumps breaking across my skin. For a small moment the room disappears entirely, blackness fills my vision as I feel the desire slowly leaving my system. I release the sheets, now damp from my mouth, and rest my cheek against the mattress, breathing deeply as the quietness of my room returns around me.

Behind me, there is no one.

No hands.

No gentle, domineering voice.

And yet the ache that had been building inside me has finally loosened its grip an for tonight, at least, it feels enough.

that arch though

 

[urbangentleman]

https://postimg.cc/t1mdJ4gf

Good Girl - A Submissive’s Confession

(For adding atmosphere play: I Feel Like I’m Drowing - Two Feet)

Sitting at the edge of my bed, I lean back on my hands and let my head fall gently behind me, releasing a slow breath of relief. I needed this, an evening to myself, to be alone with my thoughts, to let myself fully feel. I am so full of desire I feel it spilling from my every pore, coursing through my veins and filling my body with a desperate temptation. I need this.

Time alone, where no one expects anything of me. Only here, in my room, can I sit still long enough to feel the ache I usually push aside and ignore until it becomes all too much. It makes me restless in ways that are difficult to explain; the feeling can be so overwhelming it often makes me feel almost melancholy.

This awareness of a lack of intimacy, of the empty space in the bed, the lack of a warm body to comfort those parts of me that are otherwise untouched. The awareness of the time I have spent waiting for someone to touch me with nothing but pure intention.

I press my hands into the soft sheets below me, the fabric gathering in my fists as I grip it subconsciously, closing my eyes and letting my shoulders rise and fall with the slight quickening of my breath. It is strange, isn’t it, how the body remembers when it has been without touch for too long. Each seemingly insignificant place, the inside of my wrists, the hollow at the base of my throat, the delicate skin along my collarbone, where fingers or lips might pause their travels, craves touch.

I loosen my grip on the sheets and slide my hands slowly across them, smoothing the silken fabric as though preparing a place beside me, and I find my fingers lingering on the space at my side.

This is where someone could sit.

Close enough that our knees would brush if either of us moved, and close enough that I might notice the warmth and readiness of their body before they even touched me.

But what I crave is not simply closeness. No. I crave the comfort that comes from the safety of feeling both worthless and worthy all at once. I want to be allowed the permission to be submissive.

To fully submit.

Submission, to me, is not weakness. It is the surrender that comes with trusting someone enough to let them see you, really see you. To see you without the armour you carry through the world, despite all the things you despise about yourself, the darkest parts of you. It is the rare comfort of placing your lonely, restless thoughts into steadier hands and allowing someone else to decide where their touch should fall.

In my mind I can almost feel hands closing around my wrists, firm enough that I could not pull away even if I tried. My own wrists shift slightly where they rest agaisnt the bed, and I lift them for a moment, imagining how easily another pair of hands might guide them, keeping them exactly where they should be.

I stand, slowly and turn around, my eyes resting on the items I have laid out at the foot of the bed. A flogger, a candle, a stock whip. My breath deepens as I get down on my knees, leaning forward.

In my mind I can feel it again: one hand tying leather around my wrists, drawing them together, and another hand tightening around my throat, restricting my desperate, needy breaths. The weight of a hand around my throat alone would be enough to remind me that I am exactly where I am meant to be. The thought makes my shoulders lower, my body responding to phantom guidance as naturally as though someone were truly standing there. I tilt my head forward slightly, instinctively yielding to the touch and a small moan escapes my lips and I reach for the whip.

My fingers brush the handle of the whip before closing around it. the leather is smooth and cool in my hand as I bring it forward, the length of it sliding softly across the sheets. My head lowers again, hair falling forward as I lean over the bed, my free hand gripping the sheets once more. I draw the whip back slowly, imagining a steady voice, leading me, telling me that I deserve to feel this. The first strike lands across my back with a sharp snap that cuts through the silence in the room and my breath catches in my throat, a sudden rush of sensation spreading through me. I can feel wetness pooling between my legs already and I close my eyes again as I repeat the action two, three, four times until I am out of breath. The sensation in my lower tummy is too much to bear, and for a moment I remain there, leaning over the bed with my eyes still closed.

My hand releases the whi,p which falls quietly onto the sheets beside me, and I shift slightly on my knees, my breathing still deep and uneven. I can feel my cheeks burning with shame and desire; the room feels warmer now, the air around me almost thick with my arousal.

My hand drifts downward almost absentmindedly, sliding between my legs. The touch is gentle at first, hesitant, as though I am rediscovering the warmth of my own body after having given myself over to the moment. I am oh so wet, my fingers coated in want and desire. I let my finger swipe gently across my clitoris, still imagining those unseen hands there, guiding me, allowing me this moment as though it were something earned rather than taken.

Good girl.

The words are not spoken aloud, yet it truly feels as though someone were whispering those words in my ear, assuring and approving. Still on my knees, I slide forward, my arm under my body, knees splayed as I push a finger in deep, feeling for the sensitive ridge that almost inevitably makes me explode. Pressing my forehead into the bed, I take the bedsheets between my teeth, biting down as the tension inside me rises. My hand moves with growing urgency, my breathing uneven, moans now suffocated by the material filling my mouth, letting the sensation build.

My orgasm breaks through me all at once and I fall against the bed, body shuddering, goosebumps breaking across my skin. For a small moment the room disappears entirely, blackness fills my vision as I feel the desire slowly leaving my system. I release the sheets, now damp from my mouth, and rest my cheek against the mattress, breathing deeply as the quietness of my room returns around me.

Behind me, there is no one.

No hands.

No gentle, domineering voice.

And yet the ache that had been building inside me has finally loosened its grip a for tonight, at least, it feels enough.

I need to read this and enjoy that pic. So sexy Bean!