Corrupted by Him

18+ TO ASK & FOLLOW | 20+ TO DM DNI: Minors, Ageless Blogs, Blank Blogs

About me

I’m an east coast US dom with a passion for giving you smut to rub to. Regarding BKTempted: answered here

Kinks

The Primary: Corruption.

The Others: Stalker, Rape, Brainwashing, Hypno, Dumbification, Edging, Addiction, Orgasm Control, Misogyny, Patriarchy, Blackmail, Degradation, Humiliation, Breeding, Praise, Pet Play

Asks (READ BEFORE SENDING)

Important Note #1: Anon asks will only be answered if your age/age range and pronouns are included in the post. Just include it at the end of your message.

Important Note #2: Don't ask me for tasks. They burn me out.

Other than that, this blog is a place for you to indulge in your fantasies. So if you’re fantasizing, I want to know. Tell me.

DMs

I'm open to kink and non-kink conversations, just make it clear what you’re looking for. As a general rule, I use the stoplight system.

If you're looking for genuine personal advice, come to my DMs as opposed to asks. This is not a sex therapy blog, so I try to keep things kink focused in asks.

Tags & Master List

Master List

Reblog side blog

#answered.by.him - Asks.

#txt.by.him - Text posts.

#tempted.by.him- BKTempted reposts

Hypno audios - My hypno audio series

General Disclaimer

I'd stand in the yard squinting at a flicker of something bright, fading away, dissolving into blue. She'd been up there so long, all that empty sky between us, but from down here she was barely anything. So I started talking about the ground. To bring her closer. How warm it was. How things grew here, rising up from the dirt. How there was a bed waiting, and a window where the light came in sideways in the mornings and made everything gold.

She came down from there eventually. Folded her wings and sat in my lap as I watched her feel gravity for the first time. The gentle pull of everything toward everything else. Being wanted by the whole world at once. I held one of her wings, fragile and impossibly soft, and reached for the scissors. As I cut, the feathers drifted to the floor, and by the time they landed they were already just ordinary things.

Pulling back and spitting on your tongue and watching you hold it there with your mouth open and your eyes gone because I didn’t say swallow. Diving back in and sucking it off your tongue. Taking it back. Spitting it into you again. Your chin soaked and your jaw sore from being held open and you’re moaning into my mouth like you’re being fucked but I’m not even touching you below the neck.

That's why I'm stuffing them into your mouth. Don't look at me like that. This is for your own good.

I need you to taste what you've been sitting in all day. That slick patch you've been ignoring. I want it on your tongue, sinking into it, so you can finally understand what your body has been doing while you were busy keeping up appearances. I want you to lie there with your jaw stretched around the lace and breathe through your nose and really sit with the fact that this is what you taste like when you need me this badly. You didn't even know.

And then I'll guide my cock into you while your mouth is still full.

I want to fuck you while you taste yourself. I want every thrust to push a muffled little sound out of you that gets caught in the fabric and comes out as nothing. I want you biting down on your own soaked panties every time I bottom out, fresh wet flooding your tongue, reminding you. You can't moan. You can't beg. You can't tell me how good it feels. All you can do is drool and look up at me with glassy eyes while I hold this pace. Slow. Deep. Feeling you squeeze around my cock while your mouth is full of proof that you were ready for this before I even touched you.

And you're going to get wetter. Obviously. You're going to soak my cock while you drool through your panties. Leaking from both ends for me. I'll feel it every time I push in, how much slicker you're getting, your pussy making a mess of both of us. I'll keep you pinned right here between the taste of your own need and the feeling of me feeding it. Stoking it higher on purpose. Every stroke reminding you of the reality you tried to file away.

I've been fantasizing about you for weeks, every time your name shows up in my feed. I imagine writing you, starting a conversation, saying something clever enough to intrigue and flirty enough to entice.

The DMs would be friendly. Maybe we would chat about similar kinks. I'd ask you how you got started in the lifestyle. You'd ask me how long I've been into things. Maybe we would exchange some more vanilla interests. Just getting to know your conversation with two strangers.

There wouldn't be a specific point when the conversations changed direction, not obviously anyway. Maybe just a passing comment at first. I would share something about my day and you'd remark how wonderful it must be to be finished with all of that stressful thinking and enjoy the weekend by relaxing. Maybe I would make a joke and you would laugh and call me a good girl for entertaining you.

Eventually I might even ask you for advice about something and you might tell me that you were flattered that I wanted your opinion. Without that pink bold text how would I ever know that the corruption had started.

Until several months later when I found myself messaging you with my hand between my legs. When I sent you pictures at your request. When I blinked in the mirror and didn't recognize myself and couldn't remember when that happened. At that point it would probably be very confusing to try to think about but I imagine you might be able to help me figure things out.

40 she/her

Honestly, I don't think anyone's ever sent me an ask that so accurately describes what happens in my DMs. The only thing you got wrong was the timeline. It's usually faster than you'd think. Embarrassingly fast. The blog does most of the work on you before you ever show up.

But the fact that you can see all of that so clearly and you're still fantasizing about taking the plunge... that tells me everything I need to know.

But you've already become someone new a hundred times over. You've taken on new forms at every stage of your life and abandoned old ones without even noticing. The person you were at eighteen is unrecognizable to you now. The person you were last year made choices you'd never make today. You're not a fixed point. You're a thing in motion. You've always been a thing in motion. There's no original self to corrupt because the self was never finished in the first place.

So if there's nothing pure to protect, what exactly are you holding onto? What's the shame for? Who told you the version of you that wants to get fucked stupid and beg for more is less legitimate than the version that sits quietly and behaves? They're both just forms you've taken. And one of them is having a much better time.

So now when you’re desperate and shaking and you beg me to cum, I just spit in my palm and wrap my hand around my cock. And you don’t even flinch. You don’t correct me. Your eyes get heavy and your breathing changes and you watch me squeeze the base and stroke up, slow, dragging the skin tight, letting the head swell between my fingers. You watch the pre-cum bead up and spill over my knuckles and your mouth falls open a little like you can taste it. Because somewhere in that pretty rewired head of yours, this is what cumming feels like now. Watching me get myself off while you soak through the sheets next to me.

And I’m in no rush. I’ll let go entirely just to watch my cock twitch and throb on its own while you whimper like something was taken from you. Then grip it again, tighter, faster, fucking my own fist while you lie there clenching with your hips rocking in rhythm with my hand. Your body trying to sync up with what your brain says is happening to you. I can hear how wet you are every time you squeeze your thighs together. You don’t even register it. You’re too focused on my cock. On the way my stomach tenses when I’m getting close. On the way my breathing gets ragged and my grip gets sloppy and I stop performing for you and just start chasing it.

You know how everyone says they have a type? And then you ask them what it is and they give you some vague answer like, "I don't know, someone who makes me laugh" or "I just know it when I feel it."

It's completely useless. Nobody actually knows what they want. They just know what they've responded to in the past, reverse engineer a pattern out of it, and then call it a preference. Your type is just a story you tell yourself about your own history. So I can't exactly ask you what you like and expect a real answer. The only way to find out what actually works on you is to watch you respond to things in real time without you knowing you're being watched.

So all those guys in your DMs? Yeah. I hate to say it, but... They're all me. Every one.

Sorry! I know some of them sucked. But they all played their part. You weren't going to tell any single one of them everything. But you told each of them something. The sweet one got your insecurities. The flirty one got your fantasies. The one you vented to at 2am got your relationship history and your daddy issues and the thing your ex did that you still haven't recovered from. The one you sexted got pictures you told yourself you'd never send again. You were so careful about it too. Spreading yourself out across all these strangers so that no single person had enough to really know you. Very smart. Except they're all me. So I have all of it. Every insecurity, every fantasy, every confession, every photo. You've been handing me the complete picture of yourself one piece at a time, thinking each piece was going somewhere safe and separate. But I've been assembling you like a cute little puzzle on my desk this whole time.

And now I know your type. Better than you do honestly. Because it turns out that I was the one who built it. Every guy who didn't work was me, crossing another option off the list. And every almost-right guy was also me, sharpening your standards in a direction I chose. By the time I'd run all of them through your DMs, the only thing left that could possibly work for you was exactly what I plan to show up as.

So now I’m grinding on you through the fabric, and the wet spot is spreading against the head of my cock and I’ve completely lost interest in doing this properly. I should stop. Pull them to the side. Be a person about it. But we’re dry humping like teenagers, except I keep pressing harder than a nervous teenager would, shoving you into the mattress, feeling the cotton stretch tight across your pussy every time I roll my hips forward. I want to know what happens if I just don’t stop.

The fabric gives a little more each time. I can feel you opening underneath it, your hips tilting up, trying to take me in through the cotton because neither of us is willing to pause long enough to move it. The resistance is making me feral. My whole brain begging, get through, get through, get through. And then the threads start to pull apart and the head of my cock tears through the wet ruined cotton and into you.

It is officially day 203 of edging multiple times a day and not cumming. I am always wet now, and I am thinking with my big fat throbbing clit all the time. today my friend was talking about this new guy she is dating and how his dick is so big and I almost came in my pants listing. it is my bday today and I want to know if I should cum or not

I know exactly what's happening right now. You're reading this hoping I'll say yes because it's your birthday and you've been so good. After all, 203 days is so long and your pussy is literally throbbing. You're already thinking about how good it would feel. You've probably already got the whole fantasy loaded up and ready to go. A thick hard cock in your face, heavy and warm, and you're on your knees licking up the shaft real slow. Taking your time with it because you've waited forever and you want to savor every second. Running your tongue along the underside where you can feel it pulse. Sucking his balls into your mouth one at a time, gentle, sloppy, feeling the weight of them on your tongue. Getting him so hard he's dripping. Getting him ready. Pulling back and looking up at him while you guide it toward your pussy, feeling the head press against you, that one moment right before it slides in where your whole body is just open and waiting and desperate.

And you can picture exactly how it would feel to finally take it. After 203 days. How your pussy would just grip and throb and pull it deeper. How you'd probably cum in seconds because you are so far past the edge at this point that a stiff breeze could end you.

That really sounds nice... but I like you better as an edge slut.

And edge sluts don't cum.

All this is to say...

I’m sure you think you’ve mapped this whole thing out. I write something in pink. you get wet. you touch yourself. you cum with my words in your head and the orgasm fuses everything together. The submission, the sinking, the need to cum back. Classical conditioning. Pavlov’s slut. And you feel kind of smart for having identified the mechanism, right? Look at you, tracking your own corruption in real time like a good little analyst. Getting wet while you deconstruct exactly why you’re getting wet.

Now think about what you do on a random afternoon when you check for a new post and there isn’t one. Think about what happens in that gap. Your brain starts filling it. You start imagining what I might say. What I’d make you do. You start composing scenes for yourself, building them out, adjusting the details until they’re perfectly tuned because nobody knows how to ruin you better than you do. You’re writing filth in my voice and getting wet at your desk and you haven’t even started to touch yourself yet. Then you check again an hour later. Still nothing. So you build another one. More vivid this time. More desperate.

By the time I actually post something you’ve spent the whole day edging to your own imagination. You’ve rehearsed a dozen versions of me. You’ve cum to at least one of them. So when my actual words finally land you’re so primed that anything I write hits because I’ve been inside your head all day. You put me there. You did all the work yourself.

Every hour you spend waiting and checking and filling the silence is you training yourself for me with more precision than I could ever manage. I just gave you a shape to pour it into. You show up ruined and dripping and I get to take credit for it while you thank me.

Don’t.

Think about it… if you keep the account up, you can still tell yourself you’re here by choice. That you can leave whenever you want. But as soon as you delete and remake, you lose that option. It’ll be proof that whatever hold this has on you is stronger than your ability to resist.

I’d hate for you to come to that realization. So trust me when I say I have your best interest at heart.

If you really need a break, it’d be better if you weaned yourself off slowly. Maybe read a little less each day. Limit yourself to a few of your favorite posts.

And it builds. My grip tightens. My breathing changes. My stomach tenses and I can feel it gathering, this heavy hot pressure that keeps winding tighter the longer I drag it out. I’m edging myself because I like the torture of it. Getting right to the limit and then loosening my grip and letting it fade just enough to start building again. My cock is flushed and leaking and twitching every time I take my hand away and honestly it’s a beautiful thing and it’s a shame no one’s here to appreciate it.

Which is why I need you.

I want to wake you up when I’m close. Just to watch. I’d tap your shoulder and you’d roll over still half asleep and see me with my cock in my hand, thick and hard and dripping, my chest already rising and falling fast, and I’d tell you to open your eyes wide because you’re not going to want to miss this. You can touch yourself. Rub your clit under the covers, grind against your pillow, whatever you need to do. But you’re just here to enjoy the show. You don’t get to put your hands or mouth on me without permission. You just get to watch me stroke my cock and listen to the sounds I make and get yourself off to the privilege of being in the room while it happens.

And then I cum.

Long ropes across my stomach and up my chest because I’ve been edging the entire night and I’m so, so pent up. It’s on my abs and my ribs and pooling in the dip of my collarbone and dripping down my side onto the sheets and I’m still twitching, still catching my breath, still leaking onto my own fist.

That’s when you get the okay. That’s when you get to work.

You start at my cock. Of course you start at my cock. You’ve been staring at it this whole time and now your tongue is finally on it, licking it clean from base to tip, gentle because I’m still sensitive, feeling me flinch against your lips while you lap up everything that’s left. You take your time with it. You’re thorough. That’s why I like you.

Then you work your way up. Your tongue tracing the trail along my stomach, licking the cum off my skin, following the mess up my abs and across my ribs. Cleaning each line I left there like it’s something precious. Your mouth on my chest now, your tongue dipping into the pool at my collarbone, swallowing everything I gave you. Working all the way up to my neck where you press your lips against my throat and I can feel you breathing hard because doing this got you more worked up than whatever you were doing to yourself under the covers.