Confessions of a Dangerous Doll

[SevenMuse]

Sunday slows the world down.


No schedule to keep.
No role to play.
Just the sound of snow underfoot and the weight of my own attention.


Red stands out because it’s meant to.
Not to be loud—
to be undeniable.


I don’t fight the cold.
I let it clarify things.


What stays.
What moves.
What waits.


Nothing here is accidental.

 

[SevenMuse]

LAURA OFFICIALLY PERFORMS TWO SHOWS A NIGHT, THREE NIGHTS A WEEK: Yes Laura often dressed for the moments after — and preferred to sit at the long mirrored front bar and preen for the patrons. But the crowds came to hear her tales, her witty monologues, and to see her lip-sync to old Dietrich melodies. She has a sultry wanton stage personality, a bit of the waif, a bit of the ingénue, in awe of her own sensual prowess. She is a magnet that attracts our imaginings, pulling us deeper and deeper into her world of sexual whimsy. Thierry and I sit in the audience and sip her cool verbal posturing like fine dry champagne.

I personally never tire of the backroom ambience while I watch the wigs being donned and listen to the sharp tack-tack of heels hurrying from the room to the show floor. I drink the atmosphere and savor each fat drop as it rolls down my tongue. I am turned on by the movement, the noise, the silly chatter, the colors, the costumes. I taste the cigarette smoke. I taste the perfumed air. I taste hairspray. I taste sweat; lipstick and the Vodka Collins Laura ordered for me.

Thierry’s hand, under the small round table, is caressing my thigh pushing up my skirt, and he leans into me murmuring hot French words, expletives of desire and I can feel his male heat sear the images of my most private thoughts. His Marseille accent crudely lacerates the magic of Laura's performance. But I stay pressed against him, enduring his rabid attention because Laura is performing and I need every moment of her showgirl existence, every nuance of her life: ”Laura is an addiction worse than any drug I have ever devoured.”

https://i.ibb.co/BHLT6g1p/A-Nice-Spread.jpg

Can you please remove this post and start your own thread?

 

[SevenMuse]

The work speaks first.


Muscle remembers what it earned.
Breath steadies.
Posture locks in without effort.


This isn’t a costume.
It’s evidence.


I don’t perform strength.
I live in it—
even when the room is empty.


Crowned by consistency.
Ruled by discipline.


I decide where this goes—and I don’t explain myself.

 

[SevenMuse]

Chillaxing with a glass of wine...

 

[hawi13]

Absolutely gorgeous!

 

[SevenMuse]

I have a Bentbox for this shoot plus video. I get nude and I fuck.

 

[Himileage]

Sweet Pics

 

[SevenMuse]

The room is quiet enough to hear my own breathing.


Sheets hold their shape beneath me.
Leather presses close—steady, familiar, exact.
Nothing here is rushed.


I don’t move for effect.
I move because I feel like it.


This isn’t softness.
It’s composure.


The kind that doesn’t need to announce itself.
The kind that waits.


I decide where this goes—and I don’t explain myself.

 

[SevenMuse]

Concrete walls.

Cold air.

A space that understands restraint without asking for it.



This wasn’t about being naked.

It was about being precise.



Some things don’t belong in public because they aren’t meant to be consumed.

They’re meant to be contained.



I decide where this goes—and I don’t explain myself.

 

[SevenMuse]

I like when things look harmless at first.


Polka dots.
Pearls at my throat.
A skirt that pretends it behaves.


But intention lives underneath presentation.
Always has.


I don’t take off the glasses.
I like seeing clearly.


Every move is chosen.
Every pause deliberate.
Nothing here is accidental—even when it smiles.


Sweet is just another strategy.


I decide where this goes—and I don’t explain myself.