I Want To Cum Repeatedly On A Pretty Girls Fingers While They Praise Me And Kiss Me Through It

Girls be so pretty what the fuck

older women who know how to take charge… where are you? because i’d love for you to take charge. in every sense of the word.

I don't need therapy I just need to be saved by an older wealthy woman with an I-could-fix-her complex who is inexplicably obsessed with me specifically

Girls who over apologize for everything have the best pussy and grossest kinks

“can you take it?” 10/10

“you can take it.” 11/10

“fucking take it.” ♾️/10

The familiar pain that comes with loosing people will never be familiar cause every single time it hurts worse

No one ever talks about how hard it is to trust yourself if you’ve been through trauma or are mentally ill. Not trusting others is a common assumption but what about not trusting your own mind. Not knowing which thoughts to believe. Not trusting that you will be able to go somewhere and not have a panic attack or ptsd episode or be triggered in general. Not trusting your actions because they’ve always been critiqued etc. Not trusting yourself is a new kind of hell that no one should have to experience.

source: msbhaive on insta

“Hands behind your back.”

The words leave my mouth calm and measured, but there’s no mistaking the edge beneath them.

You hesitate—just for a second. Barely long enough to register. But it’s enough.

Wrong move.

I close the distance in three slow, deliberate steps, the air thick between us. My fingers grip your jaw, firm, tilting your face up so you’re forced to meet my eyes.

“What part of that was unclear, sweetheart?”

Your lips part like you might speak, like you might offer some excuse, but no sound comes. You just stand there, breath caught, waiting.

Then, finally, you move. Reluctant. Obedient.

Your arms slip behind your back, slow as surrender.

I circle behind you, my hands trail down your sides, mapping the lines of your body like a territory I already own. Then I lean in, mouth brushing against the soft skin of your neck, just enough to make you shiver.

“You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

I whisper it low, so close you feel the words more than hear them. You nod. It’s small, unsure. But it’s honest.

“Then be good,” I murmur.

You let out a soft, shaky whimper when the restraints tighten around your wrists—leather pulling snug, final, inescapable. I don’t rush. Every motion is slow and deliberate, to remind you that you’ve given yourself over completely.

And when I lean in again, my mouth at your ear, my breath hot against your skin, and I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to.

“Stay still,” I whisper, voice like a promise. “And take what I give you.”