pleasure slut

soooooo if you wanna directly support your local queer SWer maintaining housing (during pride month!!), please consider kicking me a few bucks on cashapp (& share this post if you’d be so kind)

further incentive: i get evicted i will have to move back in with my mom 🫠 which means no more OF content, no more titties & ass & moaning audios & lush vibrator videos etc etc etc

so if nothing else

preserve your access to my hot bod 😂

Semi-sequel to this story I wrote a couple days ago. I wanted to spend more time with this character. She lives inside me.

She wakes up. She's fuzzy-headed, bleary, still drunk. She rolls over and rummages around her bedside table for something, anything, to drink. She finds the mostly empty handle of rum she was swigging from before she passed out last night. She brings it to her mouth and gulps desperately. It burns. The burn makes her pussy wet. She gropes and rubs her own soft belly and tits with her free hand.

She stumbles to the kitchen, happily wasted. She hasn't been sober in months. She puts on the coffee, only spilling about a quarter cup of grounds across the counter. While it brews, she lights her first joint of the day. She breathes in eagerly. Her head is fuzzy already, but the weed makes everything feel deeper, more incandescent. She used to roll her own joints, but she's been too drunk to do that for months.

When the coffee is done, THC oil and more rum go into the cup with the creamer and she drinks deeply. While finishing her coffee, she stumbles to the hamper and pulls on a stained t-shirt. She turns on her computer. There's an email from her boss with a list of items to do, and she knows that she can do it all fucked up. She's a master.

She wanders back into the kitchen. She shoves a few boxed donuts into her mouth and grabs two beers out of the fridge. She chugs one in front of the open fridge, gulping deeply and letting the liquid settle in her heavy, round belly. She takes the other back to her desk and gets to work entering numbers and draining beers.

Enabling your Floozy Stepmom full vid

You’ve always had a thing for your “stepmom”, the big tiddied floozy your dad married after you went away to college. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen her sober, or appropriately dressed. Your dad got tired of her pretty quickly, but you can’t get enough of her wine guzzling, stumbly sweetness. You get her her own hotel room for your graduation, so she can have the freedom to be as messy as she wants, and as you want her. You do tell her the ceremony is a day earlier than it is, since you know she’ll fail to be in any condition to be seen in public, and you want a chance to hang with her.

When you arrive, she’s already three sheets to the wind and in a tiny robe that might have fit when she got married, but struggles to cover any of her booze swollen figure now. Her wobbly wine gut bounces and jiggles as she staggers around, trying to keep her swollen udders contained in her robe, unsuccessfully. She hiccups and slugs down a giant glass of wine, before staggering to a seat and going straight for the bottle.

She begs you not to be mad, some part of her knows she absolutely already failed to be sober enough to leave in twenty minutes, but she’s too sloshed to really lock onto the idea. She’s sure she’ll be great, just a little jolly. She couldn’t resist, she explains, it’s her favorite wine. You know that of course, that’s why you stashed a case of it in the fridge of her room before she checked in.

She babbles about your dad not wanting her anymore, asking if you still think she’s pretty. She knows you do, because she sees how you look at her and treat her extra special.

She wants to show you her outfit for your graduation, and falls out of her chair trying to get up and put It on for you. When she manages to change and sexily stagger back in to show off, it’s comical how far from reality she is. Her “verrrry Y2k” outfit is an outgrown slip with a satin kimono wrap over it that won’t close even a little. Her massive, over swollen tits are falling out of it, overflowing the straining lace on the cups.

The break-up wasn't that bad, just shocking. For one, she didn't expect him to make the first move. She had never been the one dumped before. She had always been the one doing the dumping. The other thing was the breakup made it undeniable.

She had plenty of excuses. Her 20s were expiring. It was hard for anyone to maintain their college figure at 29, but the fact that she had been a gym girlie at 22 and had left that behind was not a factor she wanted to acknowledge. She worked out everyday bak then. She counted calories. She never liked either of those things, but she knew that she needed to do them. Had she forgotten? Gotten complacent? Just didn't care anymore? Those are my questions, not ones she had ever thought to ask herself.

There was plenty of blame on him, too. He wasn't making her feel beautiful, so she wasn't going to put in the effort to be beautiful for him. Why break herself at the gym when he wasn't going to appreciate the results?

Her favorite thing to unload the blame on was the job at the brewery, and this one was probably the most accurate of all the culprits she would willingly point a finger at. On top of the fact that it was part of her job to know the product, finishing a shift in the taproom was next to impossible without putting a couple away; the regulars were insistent. When she first started, she tried to turn them down a couple of times, but their disappointment was apparant, and she quickly learned that a drinking buddy got better a better tip. Yeah, they were obviously flirting with her, but they were married men in their 50s and 60s just trying to flex their flirting muscles so they didn't completely attrophey through the years of marriage. All of them were harmless, and the majority of them were actually decent conversationalists with a couple beers, so she became a drinking buddy, and 2 or 3 and then 4 or 5 beers in a shift became the norm. The other perc was that she was encouraged to take a four pack of tall boys home with her every night, and almost immediately she learned that she could trade two of those with the guys packing up their food truck across the street for a nice greasy meal to sop up the pints of beer the regulars had forced on her.

So that became the routine 4 or 5 days a week, depending on her schedule. Get to work, down some beers, eat something greasy on the way home, plop down on the couch, and polish off the two remaining tall boys, sleep, wake up at noon, repeat. She got used to getting home and going to bed pretty bloated every night; finally getting to take off her jeans was always a highlight of the day. Soon she was letting the button out before she walked in her apartment, then it became on the ride home, and soon she was undoing it before getting her greasy exchange from the food truck boys. That's when she got the nick-name "gordita", which she knew to be term of endearment. It was a little embarrassing, but she couldn't help that she worked at a brewery. It was inevitable that she would get bloated in her line of work, and it was so obviously just a bloat. It didn't matter that she didn't use to have to unbutton her pants after a shift. It didn't matter that those jeans were getting harder to put on before her shift. Yeah sure, she wasn't stupid. She had probably put on a pound or two. Like she said, she wasn't in her early 20s anymore, and maybe her eating a drinking habits weren't the best recently, but when push came to shove: She was just bloated.

It wasn't long after she switched to working in yoga pants (it was crazy how small they made larges these days) that they had the conversation. It was a standard break-up convo: "we're not in the same phase", "we want different things", "I still really care about you", etc. However, somewhere in the middle, sandwiched between platitudes, he did slip in the subtlest "and you're just not really taking care of yourself like you used to" or maybe it was "you stopped putting in the effort", she didn't remember exactly - it was after her shift - but she knew what he meant, and the next morning, that was all she remembered. That day she turned down the beers - she was candid about her reasoning and they were her drinking buddies so they understood, and they were loyal clientel so they actually tipped better than usual - and she knew that the food truck boys would be expecting a beer, so she obliged while turning down the heaping greasy plate - they were equally as concerned for their sad gordita. It was an uncommonly sombre and introspective train ride home. The first completely sober one in quite a while.

When she entered her apartment, she went right up to her full-lenght mirror to finally, soberly take account of the damage done. The first thing she noticed was she was still bloated, which didn't really make sense. She'd hardly eaten anything the entire day, but her belly was still sticking out and pressing against her high-waisted yoga pants. She also noticed a little roll sticking out between the bottom of her crop-top and the top of her pants. That's when she worked up the courage to roll down the high waist of her pants to really get a look.

She had to suck in to comfortably peel the stretched fabric off her belly and when she let out there was a visible bounce and jiggle of soft fat. She poked and prodded and pinched to make absolutely sure, because she was still in denial and disbelief. She was on the verge of admitting to herself that she had developed a textbook beer belly. It was round and soft and disproportionate to the rest of her body which really had not changed that much. Looking at it for the first time in an earnst attempt at sober acceptance, she was surprisingly nonplussed. It occurred to her that she was not so much ignoring the growing problem all this time, as much as she was just uninterested.

She plopped down on the couch with her belly still out in the open and watched as it rested on her lap. She groped and grabbed it for another minute or two before having the real epiphany of the night: she really wished it was full. She suddenly regretted abstaining all day. She regretted not getting her end of the exchange with the food truck boys. She realized that she really enjoyed her routine of coming home feeling ready to burst and lazily plopping down on the couch with a full, heavy belly. It was cozy, it was comfortable, it felt right, and she really really really wished she had something to fill her newly accepted beer belly with. She grabbed some snacks out of her sparse cubbards and a beer that had some how remained hidden in her fridge and finished everything before going to bed, and while she didn't go to bed hungry by any means, but she also didn't go to bed feeling full and heavy. She never really realized how much she liked that feeling until this rare night where it wasn't the case.

That night was a turning point. Before, she had been passively bloating and filling herself, but now that the feeling was identified, she was actively pursuing it. She was revelling in it. She started pouring herself heavier beers when the regulars insisted on her having one. She began shamelessly asking for an extra side from the food truck boys. She was even regularly getting herself dessert on her way home from work. On off days she was staying home and filling herself with door dash. She loved the warm, passive safety of a full belly.

you ask him what it is and he shrugs. "i just want you to be good for me."

There is something about watching her face after she finishes drinking, the moment she is still totally sober, and she knows it will just be a few minutes before the alcohol hits her like a truck.

Watching her eyes glaze over, and her body start to sway. She can’t stand up straight anymore, stumbling as everything washes over her.

Before the first bottle can sink in all the way I’ve handed her another, and she puts it to her lips without thinking. It feels so good, like she’s going to float away.

My girlfriend has been behind on her housework lately, so I’ve decided to make it a little game for her!

Step 1. As soon as she wakes up she has to dress up in a slutty little maid outfit, and she must finish the mystery drink I’ve prepared for her.

Step 2. For every chore she completes she earns one shot.

Step 3. For every hour that passes she has to finish one drink of my choosing.

To get in you need to take a double shot, and to go youre handed a canned cocktail.

To get clues someone from your group needs to take a mystery shot, theres 3 of which one is non alcoholic, one is 20% and one 50%. Theyre all clear so its hard to pick which one ..

Your group has to play shot roulette as well.

To get another achievement you need to empty a bottle with a straw to see whats at the “bottom of the glass”

Your foods at the table and they ordered you a margarita and a big bottle of water.

The thrill of getting yourself drunk at someone elses command in a public space.

Having to try to act normal and pretend to be sober so you dont get asked to leave the Restaurant despite the fact that youre so wasted you can barely sit upright nevermind speak a proper sentence.