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@b1cuspid
18+ only; ageless blogs blocked
Untagged hard kink sideblog, RACK practitioner
Transandrophobia is not real

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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lovingly, caringly, but impersonally lubing up and fingering and warming up a bound captiveâs cunt like theyâre a familiar favorite machine thats just being a bit uncooperative, or like a beloved pet scrambling and crying but still held fast because its owners plans and decisions for its body just matter more than its own
After I'm done abusing you, I let you cry for some minutes. I take pity on you. I gently rub your back. I ask you if you need anything. You don't reply. I tell you to stay put. You know your place, so you do. I come back with a glass of water and a blanket. I hand you the water and I tell you to drink it. You look at me. You can't trust me, but you've been crying all night long. You figure you need it, so you drink. I cover you up with the blanket. I rub your back, I run my fingers through your hair, I caress your thighs. You feel dirty. Hollow. Broken
I tell you to take it slow. Drink your water. I'll be right back. I go to the bathroom and turn the shower on. I let the bath tub fill up. I come back and tell you to come back with me. We enter the bathroom and it's nice and warm. You have a pit in your stomach. You're not sure of what I'll make you do. I tell you to get in the shower, as I grab the blanket and take it off for you. You get in. The water is warm. You sit there, letting the water wash away the memories. You try reaching out for the shampoo, but I get it for you. I start washing you
You're dirty. Full of bruises and marks. It hurts. I tell you that I'll tend to them later. I'll wash your hair first. You feel like I didn't enjoy hurting you. Maybe that's what I want you to think. You're having a hard time processing what happened. Why am I being so soft, caring and gentle? You know I'm just manipulating you. Trying to make you feel like I care about your well-being. Maybe I just don't want my toy to break. You're not sure of what to think. But you feel cleaner now
When we're done, I help you get out and dry yourself. You notice I don't even try touching you. You go sit on my bed. I got you some nice clothes. Too nice. They're also exactly your size. They're clothes that you would enjoy wearing, if not for the fact that your rapist is giving them to you. You put them on anyways. I come back after you're done dressing with some ice packs and painkillers. I take care of your bruises, and I got you some more water to help drink some pills. You trust me, and you do as I tell you. I want the best for you
I rub your back, and your legs. I take such good care of you. You don't even recognize me anymore, but it feels nice. You enjoy this. You almost want this to happen again, just so I could softly wash your hair again, just so I could make you feel like someone loves you and cares about you. The pit in your stomach starts to hurt again. I continue to take care of your bruises, and I also apply some antibiotic ointments on your cuts. It stings. I dress them with bandages, and you feel a lot better. You really feel like I'm doing this for you
I tell you to go to the bathroom and pee. I can tell you've been holding it. Your legs are shaking. Your body is squirming. I ask if you need any help. You tell me you got this. You go and take your time. You don't understand why I'm being so thorough, why I'm taking such good care of you. You assume I'm just trying to manipulate you, or to give you a false sense of security. And it's working. I come back and enter the bathroom just as you're done. You feel embarrassed. I wordlessly come next to you. Your adrenaline rushes. You begin to feel scared again. But I just take some toilet paper and clean you. You freeze in place. I ask if you need help getting up. You don't reply. I pull your underwear and pants back up, and I help you get up and come back to bed with me
I made you dinner. There's a lot of food. Your legs are shaking and you feel weak. There's that pit in your stomach. You wonder if it's hunger. Once you think about it, you realize you're starving, and you begin to eat. You feel shy and embarrassed. I tell you that you're doing well. That you did so well today. I tell you to eat slowly and to enjoy the food. I made it specially for you. You notice that it's a lot of food you like. I even brought you pastries and snacks. I get close to you, and tell you that I'll be leaving. I kiss the back of your neck. You want to cry. I tell you that I'll be back later. We'll do this all over again. And you better get used to it. Don't worry. I'll take good care of you. You'll learn to love your rapist. You'll enjoy being raped. You'll crave that feeling, and you'll feel so relieved once it's over, because you know I love you and will take good care of you
Imagine heâs got you in the meanest mating press, his thick cock spearing you open against the bed and itâs so good youâre seeing stars. But suddenly he stops and just leaves his cock inside of you, splitting you open, not thrusting and not moving, just buried deep inside, holding you nice and open for him. And he decides to focus on your clit, maybe with a vibrator or maybe with his fingers, just rubbing and playing with your swollen clit. Itâs making you whine and buck your hips against his weight but heâs so much bigger and so much stronger thereâs no way to stop him. He tells you to be a good girl and take it because he just wants to feel your pretty pussy pulse around his cock, he wants to feel your walls fluttering around him, your cunt milking his cock so perfectly in response to the overwhelming stimulation on your clit. And heâs so mean about it, one hand working your clit and the other braced against the bed so he can lean into you and keep you pinned down. Heâs pushing you closer and closer to a mindbreaking orgasm as he whispers in your ear. âSuch a good girl for me, come on, milk my cock with that pretty pussy, thatâs it, feel good for me, I want to feel that cunt clenching around me, there you go.â And finally, your body breaks into a toe-curling orgasm, trembling, writhing, crying for him and the unrelenting pleasure heâs forcing out of you. You look at him through teary eyes, expecting him to go back to fucking you but all you see is the sadistic gleam in his eyes that tells you this is far from over. âCome on baby,â his voice is so mean as his fingers donât stop working your clit, âOne isnât enough, give me more, let me feel that pretty pussy pulse around me again, thatâs it, keep making those needy sounds for me, you can take it, I want your pussy to cum over and over again to milk all the cum out of my cock. Weâre not stopping until Iâm satisfied.â Youâre sobbing now, trying to push him off, trying to make him stop the assault of pleasure. Begging, crying, gasping out pleas that heâs ignoring because he wants to use you to feel good, he wants to use you like a fuck doll, meant for nothing more than to milk his cock like a toy with no regard for how you feel. His fingers pull another orgasm from your body, the feeling lighting your every nerve and forcing your pussy to milk him just the way he likes. But itâs not enough for him, it wonât ever be enough for him, and so he keeps going. He pulls one orgasm after another out from your helpless body just so he can use you to make himself feel good. It has nothing to do with your pleasure because heâs exceeded that several times over now but it has everything to do with using you like a sex toy to get himself off. You have no idea how many times heâs forced your body to cum for him when he finally groans above you as his hips jerk into you, pumping his cum deep inside of your still-spasming walls. And maybe heâll leave his cock inside of you even after, keeping you plugged up and nice and full with his cum while you fall asleep in his arms, with his gentle kisses on your forehead and soft strokes of your hair.
looking into your wide eyes, making you shake and cry with every thrust, stroking your hair and kissing your forehead and telling you "dad's gonna put so many babies in you" when he knows full well you're so so little that there isn't even a chance....

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if i can be honest i cant quit thinking about raping someone in a closet. maybe late into a party or something. knock them on their ass quick and hard, shut the door behind us and follow them onto the floor. not enough room to be comfortable in any way, just enough for me to paw their clothes off and smother them with me. itâs cramped, awkward, painful, stuffy with the muffled sounds of our struggle. i know im holding their mouth too tight, i know theyâre stuck at an odd, uncomfortable angle splayed under me and crammed into the corner, i know it hurts, but i donât care. if anything it spurs me on more. i know they can feel my words just getting me harder but i tell them im sorry anyway, holding them close, intimate like a lover as i force more and more of me inside, cooing in their ear i didnât want it to be like this but that i need them to bear it for me anyway
would you let me take you to my favorite trail and lead you to the most secluded parts, right by the riverbed, and strip slowly under the blazing sun, dip slowly into the water, moan at how cool and refreshing it is, ask you to join me and make eyes while you take off your clothes. what if we took breaks and picked berries and i let the juice dribble down my chin, stain my skin red and purple, get the meat of it in between my teeth and under my nails. it looks like blood and flesh, like what would happen if you overpowered me and raped me there on the rocky shore. donât you want to? donât you want to snuff the light of my eyes, watch the bright greens and golds of my irises dull when you beat me into submission, too shocked and tired from swimming to really fight back, just a wet and tight hole to tear into. you want to watch how i struggle with my head under the water, closest to the place i call home, with the algae and budding salmon and pond skaters and the green gold light reflecting on the waves i cause in my panic. you like the way my hair floats out like dark snakes fleeing in the remaining ripples of my life. you think the most beautiful ive ever looked is while dead and broken beneath you.
Saturdays are for reblogging House of Gord!
Claire Addams is the toughest bondage model I've ever known, but Gord's Back Arch Machine still left her completely destroyed. This is the exact moment when the pleasure broke her.
My biggest turn on is the the kind of guy that whimpers and whines while raping me hard and rough. The type that doesn't only lose control over himself the moment he sees me, knowing he just has to take me, consent or not, but also the type to forget everything but my pussy and making me belong to him once he feels my warm pussy clenching around his cock.
He fucks both of us dumber and dumber, holding my hips as I try to struggle fucking me like a fleshlight, like a toy, like he's not even considering what I want or how I feel... All while crying into my neck, his hands shaking against my hips and his cock aching, practically begging him to stop pumping his seed into me. Everything hurts. He's so overstimulated, raping my pretty body for hours now, pounding his cock into me and violently trying to fit it deeper as we both squirm and whine in pain, trying not to scream. But he can't stop. He needs more. He needs to reach deeper, he needs to completely drain his balls into my womb, he needs to pound me until he can't take it anymore, then fuck me until we both pass out.
At first he was rougher and more aggressive with his actions, moving me around, groping me all over, playing with my body with complete disregard for my protests. But the more he came, the more he fucked me stupid... Gradually he did the same to himself. Now we're both on the floor, my body too weak to fight anymore as I do the only thing I still can, crying and trying to quietly beg him to stop between thrusts. He, laying on toy of me, kisses my temple while moving his trembling hands to touch my body and play with my tits, whining unintelligible words into my ear as our tears mix together on the cold floor.
need them to clamp a hand over my nose + mouth and they pound into me so hard they don't notice I lost consciousness minutes ago

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the soft animal of my body wants to get face fucked until I puke
hi-res image I saved of this scene forever ago
this is claire adams with gord from house of gord
i have been outattributed! this is not gord, i just think all old white men look and sound the same. this is from kink.com's old website, water bondage. it IS claire adams though
thinking about a snuff film where the audience watches you get beaten, raped and cut as usual, but before it can come to a proper climax you're thoroughly bound and buried alive in a shallow grave.
from then on, the footage is a time lapse from a security camera overlooking the spot where your body lies. seasons pass in seconds; the moment you stop thrashing is unclear and unceremonious. but occasionally, we slow down to real time to showcase that spot where the dirt's caved in slightly and where the plants grow just a bit taller.
holding a plastic bag over my friends head and making out with her through the plastic while she suffocated did something to my brain
strangers on the train

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it stares up at you silently; eerily. the net digs into its face, all the way down its spotted tail, tangled in its flippers. its eyes are wide, haunted, though it blinks methodically from where it lays on the rocks below you, under your raised arm and your rusted, quivering harpoon. the tide pools ripple, the overcast sky dims with approaching storm clouds, and you know you need to get this over withâhowever unpleasant it may be.
when you step closer, the creatureâs mouth opens into a wide snarl, and its stomach jumps with a silent noise. you think it barks at you, but you canât be sure; whatever noise the creature makes is drowned out by the roaring of crashing waves.
uncertainty fills you. something in its eyes reads understanding, intelligence unbefit a monster. is it wrong to harm something you know is human, underneath the pelt? do you care? is it wrong if you donât? does that make you a monster? again: do you care?
you think you do. itâs hard to tell what exactly is guilt and what is disgust. you know that the seal is something more, something that can walk on two feet and speak and feel the way humans do, even if it is merely a cheap replication. so, you canât kill it; the part of you that wants to is outweighed by the part that couldnât bear whatever outcomes your actions would wrought. the only solutions, then, are to either let it goâwhich could bring its own complications, if the murderous look itâs giving you is anything to go byâor take it with you.
then begs the question of what youâd do with it. you hadnât thought this far when you set the traps; all youâd known was that the fabled beasts had been sighted, and that their pelts were expensive and well worth the struggle of coming into possession of one.
this particular beast was one you recognized. youâd seen it before on these very rocks, a few seasons prior, when a storm had stuck it under large debris and it had needed to shed its pelt to don its legs. youâd watched it all from the cliffside, at a spot that overlooks the cove, in a horrified but amazed silence. however much youâd seen in all your years in that creaky old cabin, working the lighthouse, would never quite compare to seeing a human step out from a seal carcass very much whole and healthy, with surprising grace and agilityâlike every movement was a stroke through the water; a ballet in the sea turned to waltz on land.
although, how you recognize it is not for the scars on its flank from those seasons past, nor the specific freckling on its pelt, but its eyes; wide and sentient and green. green like the moss that grows on the rocky paths around the lighthouse, the sea glass that washes ashore, the evergreens that grow along the rocky edges between forest and coastline.
you make a decision.
it is a quick and easy thing, to knock it out with the blunt end of your harpoonâs shaft.
the unfinished basement of your cabin becomes its new home; stone and dripping ceiling replaces the vast seas at the same moment that freedom becomes a passing dream rather than something obtainable. you leave it down there, bloodied and scalped, to wake alone and dazed from the drugs you injected into its system; a bit of pity lingers in your chest when its horrified, human screams reach your ears from your kitchenette, but not nearly enough to bring yourself to let it go. you have it, now, and the way its pelt shines from its spot above your sink, glistening there while it dries, makes you all the more reluctant to part with it.
there was something cathartic about shucking the silky smooth skin from the monster; the way its limp body laid there, nerves trembling with the aftershocks of such cruel violation, brought you peace and excitement and disgust and arousal. the act of forcefully removing its flesh was perverse, admittedlyâthatâs partly why you did it, after allâbut that morbid curiosity has had you in a vice for far too long, far too many seasons of watching, waiting, hoping. taking its pelt was inevitableâsimply another part of your nature.
itâs rocky at first; dealing with the beast, feeding and checking on it, keeping it sedated and tied up tightly enough so it canât escape, but not so tight that it loses complete circulation in its limbs. itâs a work in progress, and not one you take lightly. you learn quickly that its diet is, for the most part, similar to that of a human; except for the fact that it turns up its nose at anything canned, and growls whenever you try to slip your old tuna preserves into its small meals. fresh and raw is preferredâand itâs let you know it; the floor of your basement is still stained from the (very obviously intentional) purging of a meal or two, which had earned the culprit a week without food. the problem does not arise again.
so, for the most part, you keep it fed and warm and give it a musty old mattress to sleep on, blankets to cuddle at night (to replicate its pelt, which you mount above your fireplace, and eat in front of every morning and night), and you draw it a hot bath every three days. it doesnât speak, not to you, so you donât bother keeping conversation. the pair of you have no real relationship other than captor and captive, but that bothers you little; at least, not until it bleeds for the first time since you brought it home.
admittedly, you havenât paid much attention to its physical form since the night youâd stripped it of its pelt. youâve been more concerned with keeping it alive to be studied and observed than anything else; your sadism about the subject extended more to the torturing of its mind than to the harming of its body.
when two weeks pass with little thought of it in your mind, there comes a quiet morning where you check on the beast before your chores, only to find its legs are stained bloody under the old nightshirt youâd dressed it in. long, pale skin is streaked in clotted, dark red and brown blood, and it cowers on its now-stained mattress while you stare it at from the bottom of the basement stairs.
it is only when youâve crossed the room and squatted before it, eye-level but still not at all equal, that its stare turns defiant and strong. it squares its shoulders and clenches its jaw, prepares for the absolute worst you can give. you do nothing. your cock tents in your pants but you do not move, and you do not go to touch. you want to; god knows you do, but something holds you back. youâre not sure what, but something needs to give.
it makes a noise. soft, uncertain; not-quite-human but a decent enough replica. its eyes keep darting down to your crotch, to the bulge that gets more prominent with the creatureâs attention, and it looks conflicted. you canât be sure what itâs thinking, feeling, fearing; all you know is that the abrasive look on its face shifts ever-minutely into one of shame, of all things, and something inside of you breaks.
youâre on top of it in seconds.
smooth skin gives way to red beads and tight flesh clenches around you, the smell of copper and sweat mixes in the air, heady and all-consuming. you donât know if this is a dream. its cries are piercing and its punches strong, always strong, and the fight makes your blood rush throughout your body in waves of sickness. itâs disgusting. itâs monstrous. your desire is an unstoppable force, your arousal an instrument that brings agonizing pain and want and need. you need this more than youâve ever needed anything. more than light and air and sustenance. this is the same but it is also more than that. this is humanity. this is malice. this is pleasure. this is greed. this is hunger.
so you feed.
its screams and thrashes alight you with the thrill of pure adrenaline. when you hold it down, it makes a noise itâs never made before; crooning, achingly morose calls that bounce off of the basement walls in vibrating echoes. it fills your body with instinctive fear, and your hands are quick to muffle the beasts song. sweaty, calloused hands pressing its mouth firmly closed while you violate its cunt. the way it clenches around you, slick and tight and addictive, makes it all worth it; every sleepless night and bleach-fumed haze; the time and energy wrought into keeping your secret just that: a secret. just the drag of its abused hole against your cock makes all the effort fruitful. you learn you love the combined smells of blood and cum.
itâs quieter, after.
you donât stop after the first taste. breaching that thinly veiled line of reasoning and morality flips a switch that only seems to enlighten you. you grow hungrier, needier; you donât deny yourself the pleasure that comes from taking away the creatureâs heartsong. you break its legs when it dares to call to its own kind. mending the bones is a tedious but enjoyable process; violating in a completely different, more intimate way. you take away its ability to flee and force it to become utterly dependent on you to help it heal. it tolerates every touch and strives to behave, you can tell. it wants to follow the rules youâve set. more than anything, it wants to use its legs again.
you bathe it and it hisses and whines at the lapping of the bathwater. you hold its head under to teach it a lesson, and you like the panic in its eyes before you dig your hands in its hair, the way its limbs flail and the sounds it makes while screaming underwater. you like the way it flinches when it hears the sound of running water. you teach it to fear the very thing its soul belongs to.
this process of torturing it into compliance is one you relish in. but like anything: it bores you, after a time. you grow tired of its cowardice and strangle it half-dead in the middle of the night. you starve it so you can study its reaction, taking note of its spike in affection after you finally feed it. you train it to trill welcomingly to you when it hears the latch unlock at the basement door. you beat it black and blue, rape it whenever the mood strikes, waterboard it every full moon when it finds its heartsong again. you donât notice that it hasnât menstruated since that first time; and if you do, you chalk it up to stress or dietary problems or something else. you donât consider that you never once pulled out, or that sailors have been fucking mermaids and the like for hundreds of years, and that theyâre rumored to sire children from them. you donât think about anything until the thing starts showing.
you donât have the heart to do anything about it.
the creature carries. its diet is adjusted andâfor the first time since before your net caught the beastâyou treat it like any other human. the boy receives supplements and three meals a day, clothes and better heating, a comfier bed and gentler care. you donât know what to do with the approaching change, and so you stay with him more often, trying to figure out the plan. in doing so, you grow comfortable in his presence; not just as what he previously was to you, but what he could be. youâve been lonely. everyone in town knows it, but they leave you be. itâs been a very long time since youâve done more than sleep with the occasional stranger and youâre loathe to admit it, butâŚyouâre only slightly surprised when you start seeing him as a potential wife. a mother to your children. someone to warm your bed.
itâs a pipe dream. a part of you knows that, but itâs hard to rationalize when the prettiest creature youâve ever seen stares up at you with such deep, soulful eyes. you grow to love the sounds he makes, the sea-salt smell that clings to him, the feel of his rounded stomach when you rock into him. you think he starts to grow fond of you, too. you hope so, at least. his legs heal and you bring him upstairs. you give him a space in your closet and a bedside table of his own. you teach him words and songs and your name. you give him one of your own choosing. youâre halfway convinced he likes it.
there comes a night where you get a little too drunk after tending the light. drinks pour heavy and youâre not eating as much as you should be because the boy gets some of your portions. the haze of alcohol and the sight of a pretty thing laid out in your bed makes you dumb, and youâre too eager to spread its legs and fuck into it the way you used to. its chest is swollen and so is its stomach and you love the way its cunt looks wrapped around your cock. you wake it up that way, moaning and whining while you rut into it. you get heavy handed. you get rougher than you mean to. the thrill of being overtly cruel to it seeps back into your mind and you canât help it, really you canât; it looks up at you with the most conflicted expression, of desire and resignation, and you see a flicker of something else there.
thereâs a knife in the drawer of your bedside table. the same one you used to shuck it of its pelt.
you grab for it. clumsily. drunkenly. half-jokingly.
kill me, its eyes are saying. kill me, kill me, kill me.
your knuckles flex around the blade in your hand, and the boyâs eyes flit down to the movement; a small, quick flicker of burning flashes in those sad eyes, and you know that, like many otherâs before it: this moment was inevitable.
youâre only human, after all.
when you do it, it is not an act of mercy. it is not quick, nor is it painless; you take your time, relish in its heartbroken cries, bathe your hands in its blood like all those months before on the rocks. it writhes and panics despite the mutual agreement, twisting and calling for something, for anyone to help it. you help it. you do. with your cock and knife inside it simultaneously, you help free the creature from your own selfish ways. thatâs what you tell yourself when you cum and your stomach rolls in disgust. thatâs what you repeat in your head while you take and take and take. still you take. you love him. is it so wrong that you free him this way? you love him. you do. you promise him that you do. he does nothing. he is silent and he is still. he is everything. he is beautiful.
you bury the boy at the edge of the cliffside, steps away from where you stood so many seasons before and watched it shed its skin. you do not take the pelt down from where it is mounted above your hearth, and you do not sell nor part with it, not in any of the long years you live your mortal life. even in death, he is yours.
new blog, same selkie