Just Want A Pretty Boy To Degrade. To Call Him A Whore, Watching As His Dick Twitches. To Call Him A

3: Do you have any unusual kinks/fetishes?

28: Favourite body part on the opposite sex?

29: Favourite body part on the same sex?

15: Most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you during sex?

3. I guess it depends what you find unusual lol. I have a knife kink I think so again depends what you find weird. Lemme know what you would consider weird lol. I have been becoming more of a mess though so I think I'm collecting kinks ...😖

28 and 29. It depends honestly. I can pick something based on person to person with people. Body type doesn't matter to me. Though inwould say I'm a little bit pickier with men then women. Have a good voice you have an automatic advantage~

15. Most embarrassing thing...fuck. I called someone daddy when he was fucking me. I turned red and was a bumbling mess. Thankfully he was into it....but heyyy. Lol

If you ever muzzle someone as part of puppy play, you should also bind or put mitts on their hands, because that's what muzzling is for a dog. They interact with the world using their mouths, they use it to pick things up and to move things and to open things. So when you muzzle a dog, you're taking away that ability to interact with the world, which for us humans is our hands. Don't forget to restrict your puppy's ability to use their hands next time you muzzle them!

Not quite a praise kink or a degradation kink, but a constructive criticism kink

“Brains are for boys”

No. No, sweetie, they aren’t. Brains are for people. And that’s why you should give yours up, because you’re not a person. You’re a sub. Submissive, sub-human. Got it? Give up your brain to a person, whether it’s a man, a woman, or someone in between. Give it up to a person, because you don’t deserve it, since you’re not one. Good sub.

75. Have you anonymously sent a sexual ask to someone on tumblr?

88. Have you ever confessed to someone that you got [wet] over them? What about masturbated to them?

😉

75. Yeah I have....BUT SINCE YOU DIDNT SPECIFY WITH WHO IM NOT SAYING AT ALL. TOTALLY DIDNT MAKE THIS ACCOUNT FOR A REASON.

88. Completely...I get wet a lot. I usually wouldnt but they made me tell them and it sent me through the roof. When I hear peoples voices I get turned on so uhm... sometimes masturbate..people with good voices are so fucking hot.

Savyyyyy fuck you for doing this to me. I am so embarrassed T.T

Corrupting you into a an embarrassing gooner girl,your eyes becoming wilder as you spend all day thinking about porn, your social life collapsing as you cancel everything to get home and masturbate, your hygiene and clothing getting so much lazier as you become the 'weird' girl who nobody talks to, only living to come home and be fucked.

I showed this to my girlfriend and she just said to encourage you...to make me become a porn addicted fuck doll

Take me to a hotel

and fuck me in every corner of the room

fuck me on the balcony

fuck me in the hallway

fuck me in the elevator

fuck me in the pool

fuck me in the lobby and try and not get caught

Looking at the plushies around me I'm just imaging a silly fluffy soft looking girl sitting in my place. Wouldnt assume she would do much to you. She loves plushies so so so much. So much to the point where she wants them so much she turns people into her plushies.

You.

Slowly.

Drop.

Your brain is just so squishy and malleable. Feeling so soft and huggable. Cant move anymore but you keep getting cooed at. How adorable and cute you are. Then maybe she would start grinding on you. Maybe she would sleep and cuddle you. Who knows...but I know that it would be really cute if you turned into a plushie.

I love dirty nasty pervs! Tell me all your dirty secrets and fantasies!!! My anonymous box is empty and I need it filled I wanna read everything and cum to it

ahhhhh thats literally me reoccuring dream....fuck me why cant this happen irl

Getting to know you. You wake to a blinding light searing into your eyes, a harsh beam that pierces through the fog of your groggy mind. Instinctively, your hand jerks upward to shield your face, but it catches mid motion, snagged by something tight and unyielding around your wrist. A quick, frantic glance down reveals your new reality: you’re naked, sprawled on a cold, hard surface, your skin prickling against the chill. Ropes bite into your flesh, taut and expertly knotted, pinning your arms above your head and your legs splayed wide.

Footsteps echo in the dimness beyond the light, deliberate and unhurried. Your pulse hammers as a shadow looms closer, resolving into a man — tall, lean, his face slightly obscured by the glare. You don’t know him, not really, but flashes of memory come crashing in: a man from the coffee shop who stared too long, a figure lingering outside your apartment, the faint creak of your floorboards late at night. You’d dismissed it as the house settling, but context clicks everything into place: he not just some creep. He’s your stalker, and he's brought you here — wherever here is — for this.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice calm, clipped, like a doctor noting a patient’s chart. He adjusts the light — a portable lamp rigged on a stand — tilting it so it bathes your body in an unholy glow. “Good. I was starting to wonder if I’d misjudged the dosage.”

You thrash against the ropes, your muscles straining, but they don’t give an inch. “Let me go,” you snarl, your voice raw with fear and defiance. “Let me go, you sick fuck!”

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he pulls a notebook from his pocket, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist, and jots something down with a pen he clicks twice — each sound a tiny gunshot in the silence. “Hostility noted,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Expected, given the circumstances.”

He steps closer, and you catch the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to him, mingling with something muskier, more human. He’s not frantic or wild eyed like you’d expect from a madman. No, he’s methodical, his movements precise as he sets the notebook on a small metal table beside you. On it, you glimpse an array of objects — glossy, sleek, some buzzing faintly already — your breath catches in your throat.

“I've been waiting to study you up close,” he says, picking up a slim, curved vibrator. “I hope you understand — some things you just can’t learn without…hands on experience.”

You grit your teeth, twisting your hips away as he kneels between your bound legs. “Don’t touch me,” you hiss, but your voice wavers, betraying the tremor in your core as he presses the device against your inner thigh, letting it hum there, teasingly close but not yet where you dread — and, shamefully, half anticipate — he’ll take it.

He tilts his head, observing you like a specimen under glass. “Resistance is encouraged. It'll help us establish a baseline for your collapse.” With a flick of his thumb, the vibrations increase, and he drags it upward until it grazes your clit. The jolt is immediate — sharp and unwanted — but your body betrays you, a gasp slipping past your lips before you can choke it back.

“No,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut, willing your nerves to deaden, to ignore the heat pooling within. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, a desperate anchor against the rising tide. But he’s relentless, adjusting the angle, pressing harder, and the sensation builds too fast, a wave you can’t outrun.

“There it is,” he says, his tone almost reverent as your thighs tremble despite your fight, the first orgasm of the night flowing through you. “First peak at… fifty seven seconds. Remarkable sensitivity.” He scribbles in his notebook, the scratch of pen on paper maddeningly loud. “Outside of expected bounds.”

Shame burns hotter than the pleasure, and you glare at him, tears forming in your eyes. “Fuck you,” you spit, voice shaking. But he doesn’t smile, doesn’t gloat. He just nods, setting the vibrator aside and reaching for something else — small, metallic, glinting. Nipple clamps.

“Let’s introduce a new variable,” he says, and before you can brace yourself, he fastens one to your left nipple, the pinch sharp and insistent. You yelp, arching against the ropes, and he watches, unblinking, as your body try to adjust.

“Pain threshold seems moderate,” he mutters, attaching the second clamp. The dual sensation — sting and throb — makes your head spin, and when he tugs lightly on the chain connecting them, a moan escapes you, unbidden and humiliating.

You bite your lip hard, tasting blood, trying to focus on the pain, on anything but the way he’s unraveling you piece by piece. He picks up another toy — a thicker, ridged dildo this time — and coats it with lube from a bottle on the table. “I need to test internal responses,” he says, as if explaining a lab procedure, and then he’s pressing it against your cunt, pushing in slow but firm, ignoring your choked protest.

Your body resists, then yields, and the stretch is overwhelming, filling you in a way that’s both invasive and maddeningly good. You thrash again, weaker now, your strength sapped by the relentless assault on your senses. He works it deeper, methodical, watching your face, your chest, the way your muscles clench and release.

“Stop — please,” you rasp, but it’s a plea you barely believe yourself, your hips twitching traitorously as he finds a rhythm. The pressure builds again, and when he angles it just right, brushing some spot inside you that lights up your nerves, you shatter. Your cry echoes off unseen walls, your vision blurs, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth as your head lolls back.

“Fascinating,” he says, pulling the toy free with a wet squelch that makes you flinch. “Second peak at…” he checks his watch, “two minutes, twelve seconds. You’re… efficient.” He wipes it clean with a cloth, his hands steady, clinical, while you lie there, limp and buzzing, your mind fraying at the edges.

It continues like this, as hours blur into a haze of sensation — clamps tightened, toys swapped, his voice a constant drone of observation. “Clitoral overstimulation after seven peaks… anal elasticity exceeding projections… vocalization increasing with fatigue…” You fight, you really do — twisting, cursing, pleading — but each climax drags you deeper, until your thoughts are a jumbled mess. You’re numb yet hypersensitive, drooling, glassy eyed, reduced to a creature of pure reaction.

He steps back at last, notebook full, his expression one of quiet triumph as he looks on at your exhausted body. “You’re a marvel,” he says, almost tender, as he adjusts the light one final time, leaving you trembling in its glare.

“Of course, I’ll need to replicate these results tomorrow. For accuracy.”