I worry about some of you. You’re too loud about what you are. Reblogging my posts with tags like someone please do this to me already. You’re putting out an open call and you have no idea who’s applying.
Stop that. I mean it. You deserve someone who earns it. Someone patient enough to pay attention, smart enough to figure out what you actually need underneath what you say you want, and dedicated enough to find the whole process fascinating rather than tedious. You deserve someone who reads everything you post and connects things you said three months apart and understands you well enough that when he finally reaches out it feels less like a stranger introducing himself and more like someone you already know stepping out from behind the curtain.
I want that for you. So raise the bar. Demand that level of effort. Filter out every lazy, careless, impatient man who wants submission handed to him on a plate. They’re not worth your time. Send them away. All of them.
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Study Sesh. Your calculus textbook is the only solid thing in a room quickly dissolving into a haze of vanilla-scented vape clouds and the low, conspiratorial hum of girlish laughter. You came here to study. That was the promise, whispered over the phone by your friend with cherry stained lips. "Just a chill study sesh, seriously. We all have finals."
But the textbooks lie closed on the rug, while your "study partners" sprawl across the bed in a constellation of soft limbs and shimmering fabric, a tangle of pink and black lace. They're your friends, or at least you tell yourself they are. Yet sometimes, when their perfectly made-up eyes rest on you, they gleam with a pitying wonder, as if you were a rare, flightless bird they can’t believe still exists.
"You’re, like, actually trying to read," the blue eyed one giggles, propping herself up on her elbows. Her silk camisole slips down her shoulder, revealing the swell of a breast adorned with a tiny silver piercing that twinkles in the fairy-light glow.
You clutch the textbook tighter. "I have to. Professor B is brutal!"
The one with cherry lips, the one who invited you, crawls across the bed, a predator in her own territory. She settles behind you, her warmth seeping through your thick gray university hoodie. Her voice against your ear is intimate and sweet. "Babe. Nobody’s thinking about professors right now."
A chorus of soft "mhmmms" ripples from the bed.
Her fingers find the edge of your book. Almost gently, she pries it from your grasp, one finger at a time, and sets it aside with a muffled thud. "No more thinking," she whispers. The words are a command wrapped in silk. "Thinking just makes wrinkles."
The third one, with hair dyed bubblegum pink, wiggles up to your side. "And it’s so boring." She pokes your cheek. "You’re way too pretty to be boring."
You want to protest. You want to say that you aren’t boring, that you have thoughts, ambitions, a five-year plan. But the words feel like stones in your throat. Their collective presence is a thick and intoxicating atmosphere. It presses in, making it hard to breathe, harder still to think. They smell of sugar.
"Let’s get you comfy," Cherry Lips says, her hands moving from the book to the strings of your hoodie. She tugs, and the knot loosens. "I’m fine," you manage, but your voice is a thin, reedy thing.
"Shhh." The sound is a universal balm. Her fingers dip beneath the collar of your shirt, her nails, filed to perfect ovals, just barely grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. "You’re so tense. you really need to relax."
Blue Eyes is in front of you now, kneeling. Her smile are wide, sincere, almost doll-like. "We just wanna make you feel good. It’s more fun when we all feel good together."
You can’t answer. You can only watch as her hands move to the hem of your hoodie. They are a team, a well-oiled machine of seduction. As Blue Eyes lifts the hoodie, Cherry Lips helps guide your arms out, her fingers brushing against your own. The air in the room is hot and cold all at once as they take in your bare arms and stomach. You’re left in your plain, cotton bra, feeling exposed and pale next to them.
"See? So much better!" Pink Hair chirps, her eyes roaming over you. "Oh my god, your skin is perfect. So soft!" She proves her point by running the back of her hand down your arm.
They press in closer, a cocoon of warmth and sweetness. You are the still point in their swirling universe. Cherry Lips begins to play with your hair, undoing the tight bun you’d scraped it into for studying. The elastic snaps free, and your hair tumbles down. She combs her fingers through it, her touch slow and possessive. "So pretty," she murmurs, the words a hypnotic chant. "You're so pretty."
Blue Eyes' gaze drops to your bra. "That thing has got to go. It’s, like, suffocating you." Before you can form an objection, her nimble fingers are at your back, finding the clasp. There is a soft click of release. The straps go slack, and the fabric loosens. You instinctively cross your arms over your chest, but it's pointless.
"Don’t hide," Pink Hair scolds gently, her voice losing its bubbly edge for a fraction of a second, flashing a hint of possessiveness. She reaches out and gently, but inexorably, pulls your arms away, holding your wrists. "We’re all girls here. And we think you’re perfect."
They look at you, at your pale, bare breasts, the nipples tight and dark from the chill and the fear and something else, something you refuse to acknowledge. Cherry Lips leans in, her own breasts, unbound beneath her shirt, pressing against your back. Her breath is hot on your neck. "Your body knows!" she whispers, a secret just for you. "It’s not scared. It’s excited. It just needs permission to stop thinking so hard."
Blue Eyes leans forward, her long, pale hair tickling your knees. Her tongue, wet and warm, swipes a glistening trail from the base of your throat up to your chin. You gasp, a sharp, ragged sound, and try to pull back, but Pink Hair’s grip on your wrists tightens just enough to hold you in place.
"Good girl," Blue Eyes hums against your skin. Her lips find yours, a soft, searching pressure. It’s a test, seeing where you're at, and you pass. Kissing her back. Just a little bit. When she pulls away, a thread of saliva connects you for a moment before snapping.
"She tastes sweet," she announces to the others, a triumphant smile on her face. "Like she’s been waiting."
And then they're on you, a flurry of soft hands and wet mouths. It’s a coordinated assault on your senses, designed to dismantle your reason piece by piece. Pink Hair releases your wrists only to trail her sharp nails down your ribs, so lightly it feels like electricity, making you twitch and squirm. Cherry Lips’ hands are on your breasts, cupping them, her thumbs circling your nipples with an agonizing slowness that makes your stomach clench. Blue Eyes has moved lower, her hands unbuttoning your jeans.
Cherry Lips murmurs in your ear again, her voice a silken command. "Feel how good this is. How good we are."
Her mouth closes over one nipple. The suction is a shock, a pulling pleasure so intense it’s almost pain. You cry out, a small, wounded sound, and your head lolls back against her shoulder. At the same moment, Blue Eyes' fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties, finding the damp heat you’d been trying to deny.
"Oh, she’s so ready for us," Blue Eyes breathes, her voice filled with a genuine, delighted awe. "She’s such a good girl. So wet."
The words — good girl — should feel demeaning. Instead, they land in your mind like sparks on dry tinder. A wave of heat floods you, a deep, shameful blush that starts in your chest and spreads everywhere. You want to be a good girl for them. The realization is a crack in the dam of your resolve.
Pink Hair giggles, a bright, tinkling sound that seems to come from very far away. She’s licking a stripe up the inside of your thigh. "She’s melting. Look at her melt for us."
You are. You’re dissolving. The hard lines of your identity — student, thinker, planner — are blurring, losing their shape under the relentless, lapping tide of their attention. There is no calculus, no Professor B, no five-year plan. There is only the hot mouth on your breast, the tongue on your thigh, and the two fingers that now slide inside you, stretching you, filling you with a slick, insistent pressure.
"That’s it," Blue Eyes whispers, her face buried in the juncture of your neck and shoulder. "Just let go. Let your brain get all fuzzy and pink. It’s better this way. So much easier."
Fuzzy and pink. The words are an incantation. You try to grasp a thought, any thought, but it slips away like sand through your fingers. All that remains is the rhythm they create. The suckling at your breast, the stroking inside you, the teasing licks that promise more. They move together, a single entity with one goal: to break you. To remake you.
Your hips begin to move of their own accord, a small, rocking motion against Blue Eyes' hand. You’re chasing the feeling, the building pressure. A low moan escapes your lips, unbidden. It doesn’t sound like you. It sounds mindless, needy. It sounds like them.
The sound makes them escalate. Cherry Lips’ mouth becomes more demanding. Pink Hair’s tongue finds your clit, a direct, shocking jolt of pure pleasure that makes your whole body arch. Blue Eyes fingers curl inside you, pressing against that deep, secret spot that you’ve only ever found by accident.
"Yes," they all seem to sigh at once. "Good girl."
Your orgasm tears through you, a raw, keening wave that wipes your mind clean. Your thoughts don’t just get fuzzy; they're replaced by blinding, pulsing white light. Your body shudders, held and caressed and licked and praised through every aftershock.
In the aftermath, you lie limp, draped across them. They hold you, stroking your hair, murmuring sweet nothings. The air is thick with the scent of your release, mingled with their perfume. It’s the smell of your corruption.
"See?" Cherry Lips whispers, kissing your temple. "Wasn’t that so much better than studying?"
You can only nod, your mind a placid, shimmering pool.
Later, when you can move again, they dress you. Not in your own clothes, which lie in a discarded heap of gray and denim, but in theirs. Blue Eyes produces a tiny pink chemise, all lace and ribbons. It feels impossibly soft against your sensitized skin. Pink Hair finds a pair of matching panties, so thin they’re barely there.
They lead you to the full-length mirror on the closet door. The girl staring back isn’t you. Not you from a few hours ago. This girl is flushed, her lips swollen and dark, her hair a wild tangle around her shoulders. Her eyes are wide and dazed.
You look at this new girl, this siren of blush and wantonness, and you can’t connect her to the person who walked in here with a backpack full of anxieties and a color-coded study schedule
A thought tries to form, a protest, a question — What have they done to me? — but it dissolves before it can take shape, like a snowflake on a warm tongue. All that’s left is a simple, dumb observation.
Pretty.
"See?" Pink Hair whispers, her chin resting on your shoulder as she gazes at your shared reflection. "We told you. This is who you were meant to be."
"So much better than all those… numbers," Blue Eyes says, almost disgusted by that final word. She straightens a tiny pink ribbon on the chemise. "You’re not a calculator, babe. You’re a doll."
A doll. The word lands and sticks. Dolls don’t have to think. Dolls are made to be played with, to be dressed up and admired. The pressure you’ve carried for years — to achieve, to succeed, to be smart — it all just… evaporates. It was a heavy coat you didn’t even know you were wearing, and they’ve taken it off for you.
You reach up a trembling hand and touch your own cheek in the mirror. Your skin is hot. Your eyes are someone else’s. Someone fun. Someone free.
"She likes it," Cherry Lips says, a smug, satisfied smile playing on her perfect mouth. She steps back and appraises you, then gestures back toward the bed, which now looks less like a study space and more like an altar. "Welcome to the club, pretty girl."
They laugh, a sound like sparkling wine, a sound that pulls you along with them. You move without thinking, your limbs feeling light and obedient. They pull you into the center of the bed, into the warm, scented nest of their bodies. You are no longer the outsider. You are the centerpiece. Pink Hair picks up your abandoned textbook from the floor. She fans her flushed face with it. "O.M.G, this is so heavy. Imagine carrying this around in your brain all day."
They all giggle, and you giggle with them. It’s a foreign sound from your own throat, airy and thoughtless. The weight of the book seems ridiculous now. So does the weight of everything you used to care about. Your eyes drift closed. There are no formulas left in your head, no deadlines, no anxieties. There is only the soft touch of their hands, the sweet scent of their skin, and a single, looping, happy thought.
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i want to make a pretty girl ride me in front of a mirror so she can see how needy she looks. while switching positions when she gets too whiney, hand on her neck to keep her in her place looking into the mirror while the other holds her hips as i fuck her dumb brains out and drag orgasm after orgasm till she’s barely able to focus on her own reflection as she cums again and again.
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dry humping in his lap when he reaches around your ass and sinks the tip of his finger inside of you. he groans under his breath in disbelief over how wet you are, the way you gasp and whine and try to fuck yourself on the tease of penetration. he plunges in deep, finger buried in your cunt to the last knuckle as you tremble, desperately slipping and sliding up and down the ridges of his cock, face buried in the crook of his neck as you cum with a whimper.
Rubbing her clit gently while she's asleep so you can get her just wet enough to slowly insert your cock inside her and use her while she probably thinks she's having a wet dream
Rub that clit nice and slow while you're deep asleep until you're soaked and twitching, then slide my cock in deep and fuck you while you dream about getting ruined.
You'd wake up leaking and still thinking it was just a wet dream… until you feel my hand around your throat.
cock warming but they press a vibrator to your clit, making you cum over and over and over again until they end up cumming from the sensation of your muscles pulsing and spasming around them alone.
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Therapist. Licking the tip of his finger, the man flips through his notes. The girl sits silently on the couch. Her misty eyes stare at the clock on the wall.
“Are you ready to begin?”
She doesn’t reply. Her therapist taps his pen on the paper. Two clicks of the pen, and he scratches out a few notes. She shudders slightly.
“Let’s get started. From the top, let’s go over what happened that night.” Her eyes drift down to the floor. “…again?” She swallows her words. “Trust the process.”
“Uhm… I went out dancing…” The girl’s unfocused expression is blank and docile. Her therapist adjusts his glasses and watches her carefully. “And what were you wearing?” She picks at her nails, avoiding the question. “…the clothes I showed you…” He nods. “Did you wear them today, like I suggested last time?”
Visibly nervous, the girl holds onto the fabric on the hem of her shirt. “…yes… under here…” The man smiles. “That’s good. You’ve come a long way from our first session. I remember you didn’t even want to look at those clothes.” He clicks his pen twice. “Let’s see them.”
Shallow breaths. She wants him to fix her. Lifting up the shirt, she reveals a thin lace top. He takes more notes. Her sweatpants slide down. A tiny frilly skirt barely hides her blue-and-white striped panties. Long socks match her underwear. Her therapist examines her. “Why do you think you chose to wear that outfit that night?”
Embarrassed, the girl tries to hide her body behind her frail arms. “It was a rave… lots of girls dress like this…” He doesn’t respond, letting the silence invite her insight. “…I guess I wanted attention…” The man writes on his pad. “Well, you certainly got it. Tell me more about what happened.”
“Was a little drunk… lost my friends… dancing on the floor… some guy started touching me…” Her small voice fades off. “Mmhm. Touching you where?” She’s getting more nervous. He adjusts his glasses and watches her breathe. “He was groping my tits.”
The man clicks his pen twice. She shudders. His hand reaches out and cups her breast. “Did he grab you like this?” The girl whimpers, her tiny bralet lets her feel each one of his fingers searching her. “No… was rougher…” Her therapist pushes his hand under the lace, squeezing and gripping her tits. “Like this?”
She nods. “…pinching my nipples and stuff…” He recreates it for her. “Dressed up like that, it’s no wonder some guy wanted to put his hands on you…” The man can feel her rapid heartbeat in her chest. “So what happened next?”
“…uhm… told him to stop…” He squeezes harder. His other hand lifts up her skirt. “Why did you do that? You’re letting him see your panties, don’t you think that’s a bit of a mixed signal?” The girl blushes a deep red. “…I dunno… I tried to get away… he followed me to some old hallway at the back of the club.”
“Going somewhere a little more private? Sounds like you were trying to get fucked.” Her body twitches in his hands. He clicks his pen again. She lets out a short gasp. “No… was just trying to have fun… told him to leave me alone… he grabbed my neck.” The man lifts his hand up from her tits, holding her by her throat. A firm squeeze makes her face turn pink.
“Did he choke you? Like this?” She can barely breathe. The girl nods, her eyes close. “What happened next?” She shakes her head. “Tell me what happened. It’s important for your therapy.” He chokes her harder. “I won’t let go until you do.” Her head spins. “…kissed me…”
Her therapist drags her in closer, pulling the girl onto his lap. His lips press into hers. His tongue fucks her mouth. She squirms and tries to push him away. He releases the choke, holding the back of her neck to keep kissing her. The girl slowly stops fighting.
“You’re doing good. Let’s keep going. What did you let him do next?”
Drool runs down her chin. Her distant expression is almost lifeless. “Dragged me into the janitor’s closet… shoved me into the corner…” He nods and kisses her cheek. “Okay, we’ll go through that now.”
His powerful hands grip her by the waist. She stumbles as he drags her across the room. He pushes her to the floor in the corner of the room. “I’m sure you were fighting more than that. Don’t leave out any details.” The girl’s eyes start to water. Her terrified breaths are short and raspy. The pen sits on the table by the couch. “Come on, tell me.”
“I was crying, begging him to not do it… I sucked his dick… thought it would keep him from – “ The therapist cuts her off. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He strokes her hair. “It’s okay to cry here. Let it out.” She sobs. “I didn’t want it.” The man unbuckles his belt. She’s back in that closet in the nightclub. Tears run down her face.
The girl is still sobbing as she wraps her lips around his cock. Her head bobs quickly. The therapist grips the back of her head, fucking into her throat. He lets out a satisfied groan as her tears and spit mix, drooling down her slutty outfit. “So, you thought if you made him cum, he wouldn’t fuck you?” He doesn’t look down, but he can feel her nod.
“Try harder, then.”
Stroking his shaft, she sucks off her therapist. The girl does everything she can. Forcing it as deep as it can go, rubbing his balls, running her tongue along the bottom of his shaft. Her facefucking gets more desparate. She knows she’s running out of time.
“Did he cum in your throat?” The man growls. She shakes her head no. He smiles and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Guess he needed more, huh? Keep telling me the story.” The girl gasps for air. “Please, no… just let me suck your cock… please… not that part…” Her therapist lays his dick across her face. “You’re almost there, keep going.”
He uses her tears as lube as he rubs himself across her cheeks. “He pulled my panties down… forced my legs open… he… he…” The man kneels down and follows the script. A sharp tug pulls her cute panties off her legs. “You’re more wet than last time. That’s good. You’ve made a lot of progress.” Her toes point into the air. He buries his cock in her pussy.
She lets out a quiet scream. The girl’s body starts to fight him. He pins her wrists to the floor and ruts into her. “He held you like this, right?” Even as she struggles, she nods. “Was his cock my size?” A pathetic whine. “No, you’re a lot bigger…”
The therapist pounds into his patient. “I’m…” The girl twitches underneath him. “I’m…” Deep hard strokes. “No…” She whimpers. The patient cums on her therapist’s cock. Her head spins as he breaks her. “Did you cum?” The man asks, inches from her face. “Yes…” He keeps going. “I meant the night that it happened.” She looks up at him, filled with shame. “Yes…”
“You’ve done so well. We’re almost all the way through. He came in your cunt, didn’t he?”
The girl’s eyes light up with fear. “No no no… not that part… please, no, stop…” Her warm wet pussy tightens involuntarily around his cock. “That’s what happened, isn’t it? It’s okay to let go.” She tries to fight again. Her fingers claw at his chest before he pins them to the floor again. “Please, no, stop. I want to stop. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Is that what you told him?” He thrusts faster into her slippery hole. “Don’t cum inside of me. Don’t don’t don’t don’t…” She bursts into tears again. “Did he cum in you?” The therapist’s soothing voice makes her shudder. “Yes, but I can’t go through that part… I can’t…” He kisses her, stroking her head like a terrified animal.
The man gasps and lets out a long exhale. She feels his cum flood into her. The catatonic girl stares down at her used pussy as he slowly slides out. The sticky damp of her therapist’s cum pours down her ass. She can see him talking, but all she can hear is pounding in her ears.
He relaxes on the couch. The girl’s tongue cleans his cock. “Did you do this for him?” The man slowly rubs her back. “…nu-uh…” She nuzzles into his bulge. “You’ve come so far. You almost made it all the way through the story before you tried to stop the therapy.”
“I think you’re close to a breakthrough. I’d like to bump you up to two sessions a week for the next little while.” The girl feels his half hard cock twitch in her mouth. He clicks his pen twice. She nods as his hands grope her tits.
