I am V, here I have fun sharing my kink and paraphilic fantasies. If you're into that, enjoy.
Kinks & Limits
Into: dominance, sadism, degradation, non-con, primal play, power imbalance, power struggle, stalking & kidnapping, knives, needles, blood, fear, etc. Mind the tags.
Not into: watersports, vomit, scat; incest/fauxcest and age play; actual minors; Master/slave and TPE in general; SH/ED encouragement; feederism.
Content system
shorts - short posts
ask box - answered asks
underworld - stories with horror or fantasy element
lower levels of hell - for paraphilic/gory/other darker stuff
soft content - no pain, no violence
not a fantasy - sketches from my everyday life, personal posts, thoughts. May be sexy or not.
gifts - stories written for specific people (or by them for me)
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A date at a rage room—but we're pretending it's a fight at home. You shrink more with every plate I hurl against the wall, every piece of furniture I flip near you, my cold fury building as I smash everything around you, telling you it's all your fault. You flinch at every crash, every time I raise my voice. And then I shove you to the floor, swing the sledgehammer, and drive it into the ground inches from your head.
We need a shock collar with a Bluetooth module, baby. We'll sync it to your phone, and it'll zap you every time someone texts or calls. If you want to talk to anyone other than me, that should come at a cost, don't you think?
Your job? You don't need it. You don't need to earn money anymore—lucky you! And this way you can spend more time on us.
Then your phone. Your passwords. Your social media. For your own good.
Your friends—they're a bad influence anyway, I read your chats. Your family—they never really understood you.
You don't need a life outside of me. I'm your whole world, baby.
I'll make you unlearn how to think for yourself, to decide, to say no. You don't want to find out what happens if you say no, do you?
You don't need to think about what to wear—you'll look the way I like. You want to please me, right? And you'll wear as many bruises, scrapes, and cuts as I want. You want to please me.
But don't worry—no one but me will see them. You don't really need to leave the house, so it's no problem if I lock you in.
You don't need to eat unless I feed you. Sleep unless I let you. Speak unless I ask you to. And I won't ask often—I like silence.
Oh, and be glad you're allowed to use the toilet. You might not have been.
And by that point, even if you wanted to leave—you wouldn't know how. No money, no phone, no one to call. Just a pet in a cage by my bed.
From there you can watch while I fuck someone else. You didn't actually think we were a couple, did you? I date people. That's not what you are anymore.
Lust is the only one who tries to disguise itself with a human appearance, tho it has too many hands. One hand to beckon, one to threaten, and one to silence you. It kneels because not all of its victims are adults. It lives undercover and invites you in as well
Many are asking about the fourth hand: it's the one you only notice afterwards and are left wondering what it means, whether it's an innocent gesture or not. How it made you feel.
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[Inspired by @silverboytoy]
We're sitting at the bar, and I'm watching you over the rim of my glass, smiling, listening—not really—while you ramble on about nothing in particular. The movie you saw last week. That trip you took last summer. Some oddly endearing fact about snakes. You're knocking back cocktails one after another, your words growing looser, your gestures wider, and I don't ask why you're drinking so much in the company of someone you've barely spoken to online. We're not even friends, after all. It wouldn't be polite to dig, would it? You just wanted company. A distraction. Someone to help you unwind.
I wonder if you notice how much slower I'm sipping mine.
When we settle the tab and step out into the dark alley, away from the heat and noise, the alcohol finally catches up with you in full. You turn to face me, suddenly closer than necessary, and let out a drunken giggle. You're still giggling when I lean in and catch your mouth with mine—and you tremble against me, whether from the biting night air or from the charge that passes between us, I can't tell. Probably both. Your lips taste of smoke and bittersweet liqueur, and you keep trading between your cigarette and my mouth, as if you can't decide which one intoxicates you more. I press my lips to your ear and murmur that you're beautiful.
"Listen… going to your place is a terrible idea, right?" you ask, your voice low and rough, almost pleading.
"My cab's already here," I say, my hand finding the small of your back. "And you're coming with me."
"But my boyfriend—" you start, haltingly.
"Fuck him," I cut in firmly. I'm not stupid. I can guess why you're here, leaning into me instead of him.
You let out a shaky laugh. "Yeah… fuck him." And you silence your phone without a second glance.
It slips from your jeans pocket onto the back seat of the cab while I pull you closer, my hands roaming beneath your shirt, tracing the warm skin of your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your spine. You're too lost in my mouth to even notice. I pick it up and slide it into my own pocket, where it buzzes silently, over and over, against my thigh as we stumble out of the cab, tangled together, as I push you against the elevator wall and kiss down your neck, sucking softly at your pulse point until you gasp, as I rip off your clothes.
By the time we reach my bed, you're hot and pliant beneath my hands, your skin flushed, your mind hazy with liquor and want. You fall face-first into the cool sheets with a shudder, and I watch the way your back arches, the way your fingers grip the fabric as I settle over you, my mouth trailing down your shoulder blades.
"Please—" you breathe, your voice cracking.
Your hips push back against me, and I give it to you, inch by inch, until you're trembling, full and raw. And your moans—fuck, your moans—they strip away whatever control I had left. I need more. I need all of you. I pick up the pace. Faster. Deeper. Your fingers twist in the sheets.
"Harder!" you beg again, louder now, reckless.
And that's when I finally reach for your phone, still buzzing in my jeans’ pocket. Probably the fiftieth call by now. I swipe to answer, hold it close to your trembling body, and let your boyfriend hear every single sound you make as I give you exactly what you're asking for—harder, until you're nothing but breath and broken syllables, and he can do nothing but listen.
The screen goes dark. I set the phone aside, press my lips to the sweat-slicked hollow of your spine, and feel you shiver beneath me—not from the cold this time, but from something deeper, something you won't name in the morning.Â
no no no u guys dont get it its not just abt wanting to be killed ok its abt them being able to kill u but not wanting to bc ur so warm n soft n nobody is ever going to look at them w such devotion ever again if ur in the fucking dirt n its abt them knowing tht they can push u to the brink of death n ur still gonna use the last bit of ur strength to crawl over to them n lay at their feet like an animal finding a quiet place to die n its abt the look on their face while they watch u struggle n feeling so so good for them bc they want to watch u at ur most ugly n desperate while ur fighting for ur life they want to see it so bad they’d risk everything for it !!!!!!
your body is not just your own anymore, and you can't do anything about it. if you try harming yourself, I'll tie you down. if you try starving yourself, my baby will take everything it needs to survive, at your expense. you will be forced to watch your body change against your will, to feel that horrible thing grow inside you and know that I put it there—and worse, I will take good enough care of you to do it again and again and again.
Shout out to the non-sexual, purely practical uses of body writing and carving.
Someone dictates a phone number to me, and I need to write it down somewhere. Why not on your forehead? You're right here. Be useful.
Why not write the grocery list right on your thigh? You'll have to figure out how to discreetly lift your skirt in the store to read it—but you'll manage, won't you?
Or picture this: two sadists just chilling, playing tic-tac-toe right on your naked body. Using something sharp instead of a pen—a blade, a medical needle. Scratching out the completed row with a little extra pressure.
I think that when what's carved into you is, I don't know... the numbers from the electric meter? A reminder to call the auto repair shop? That reduces you to an object way more than any "property" or "fucktoy" ever could.
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"I'll make you worse." "I'll corrupt you." …Fuck that. I'll make you better. How about a recovery kink? A healing kink? I'll fix you—and you will thank me for it. Bitch.
I want you to put on a little show for me. Touch yourself in front of me and cum while I watch. Nothing complicated.
But what if you're on a tight schedule, and a timer with big red numbers is blinking right in front of your eyes? And you'd better make it in time, or else.
What if I'm putting pressure on you, rushing you, telling you that you're not going to make it—what if I hit you every now and then when I get bored? A shove from behind, and you scrape your knees raw on the bare concrete floor.
What if you have to do it at gunpoint?
What if your hands are tied behind your back, and I just stand there laughing, watching you desperately look for something—anything—to grind against? Trying to hump my boot will only get you kicked in the ribs. You'll have to get creative.
What if I use numbing cream on you? You could rub yourself bloody trying to feel something.
What if I know that, with your medication, you couldn't cum even under threat of death? Well, that's not my problem. That's your problem.
Don't tell her to swallow—tell her not to. Let her know she has to keep your load in her mouth until you give permission. Then take her for a short walk, or give her some task to complete, and watch her carry it out.
You can talk to her, ask her questions. It's amusing to watch her try to answer with her mouth full—the muffled hums, the desperate gestures.
At random moments, you can demand she open her mouth and show you she's still following your command. (Makes for a good photo op, too.)
It's enrichment for her. A chance to really savor the taste.
Jewelry I can hurt you with. Carrying my tools with me at all times. Rings with spikes that poke and prick when I grope you. Elastic bracelet that I snap on your neck, body, and crotch to make you squeal.
Jewelry that hurts you to wear. Making you carry my tools with you at all times. Choker with spikes on the inside so I can wrap my hands around your throat and press on it. Necklace with a big clasp that I can use to clamp your nipples.
I keep thinking about ordering a ring with these sharp little spikes on the inside. You know, so you can hold their hand, and from the outside it just looks sweet and romantic. But all the while, you’re squeezing their fingers, pushing those spikes right into their skin. It might even scratch them when you slide it on or off. And how about squeezing just a bit too hard, and seeing a drop of blood well up and run down their finger…
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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"Hey, hey, you look nervous," you say as they come to in an unfamiliar place, head pounding, limbs heavy and uncooperative, and see a masked stranger before them.
"Why are you backing away?" you ask, advancing on them, deliberately invading their personal space.
"What, are you afraid of me? What's so scary about me?" you whisper, looming over them, pinning their wrists and pressing them into the mattress with your weight.
"Sweetheart, you need to calm down. I'm not hitting you, I'm not raping you, why are you struggling so much?" you smile gently, giving them a "calming" slap across the face. And they see in your eyes—or feel it in the hard-on pressed against them—that that's exactly what you're about to do.
You are in a small room, bathed in cozy semi-darkness. It's lit only by the fire crackling softly in the hearth and the warm, honeyed glow of a single lamp. The outlines of bookshelves, heavy with old volumes, and a solid wooden desk fade into the soft shadows. You are here, settled deep into the cushions of the sofa by the fire.
And I am here with you, holding you. You are nestled in my arms, your back against my chest. My arms are wrapped securely around you, one hand resting over your heart, feeling its rhythm, the other cradling your shoulder.
You are safe here.
All your problems and worries are left outside the door. They have no place with us now. Feel the tension in your shoulders begin to melt, dissolving into the warmth of this room and my embrace.
You can let go.
Can you feel my hand now? My fingers trace a slow, soothing line from your temple, along your jawline. My palm is warm against your cheek as I gently, ever so gently, guide your head to rest against my shoulder, turning it away from the shadows. There’s no need to look anywhere but here.
You won't look at things that upset you.
You won't think about things that knot your stomach.
Your focus is here now.
Only on what is good, and gentle, and meant for you.
You feel deep, steady warmth where our bodies meet. It seeps into you, a quiet tide of calm. Listen to the slow, even sound of my breathing against your ear. Synchronize your own breath with mine. Just follow my lead. In… and out. That’s it.
Everything heavy is leaving you with each exhale.
Everything is alright.
Now, listen to my voice. It’s soft, and low, and meant only for you. It vibrates through my chest and into you.
I am always here.
You are never alone.
You are mine—and I cherish what is mine.
Your busy mind needs a rest, sweetheart. A moment of silence. Feel my fingers threading slowly through your hair, massaging your scalp in light, circular motions. Let each touch unravel a single worried thought.
No thinking of others.
No thinking of responsibilities.
No thinking at all.
Let your mind go quiet and still for me. Just focus on the sensations—the weight of my hand, the scent of woodsmoke and old books, the sound of the fire popping softly.
I will guide you. I will tell you what to do. If you stumble, I will catch you. If the world feels too loud, I will bring you back to this quiet.
You have nothing to fear.
There is only this moment.
There is only peace and safety.
All is well.
Remember this feeling. Let it settle deep within you. This calm is yours now. You will carry it wherever you go.
But right now, you don't need to think about that. Right now, you don't need to think at all.
Right now, you are just here with me. And that is all.
