☆°•2,549 words, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), spanking, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics, mean dom, doggy, post-sex use, fingering, overstimulation, verbal domination, praise & degradation, unprotected(don't be silly wrap the willy), no aftercare, name calling/pet names(e.g, baby, toy, play thing, and slut), etc•°☆
He drags you across his lap like you don’t weigh a thing.
It isn't because you did anything wrong. You haven't mouthed off or disobeyed. You didn't. You’ve been good. But as he looks down at you, his heavy hand resting on the small of your back, you realize that being good doesn't grant you mercy.
He doesn't need a reason. He does it because he can. He does it because your thighs twitch the second he leans in to breathe against your ear. He does it because your breath hitches when he tugs you down, chest pressed to his thick thigh, ass arched high and vulnerable. Because your entire body melts the second his palm spreads across your lower back like a brand.
He reaches down, grabbing your chin and tilting your head back so you’re forced to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, predatory, and fixed entirely on yours.
You shake your head, unable to find your voice.
He lets out a rough grunt, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “Didn’t think so.”
Smack.
The first slap lands hot and loud. It’s a deep, heavy sound that echoes in the quiet room. You flinch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips, your hips jerking instinctively. He pins you down with one hand, his fingers spreading possessively over your skin to keep you from squirming away.
“Because I like the sound you make,” he says, his words slow and intentional. “That little gasp. That tremble. Knowing I'm the one putting it there gets me fuckin’ hard.”
Smack. Smack.
You whine, your thighs clenching together. The sting is starting to sink in now—no longer just a sharp bite, but a thick, blooming heat that you can feel deep in your gut. He watches your reaction with a clinical kind of hunger, his eyes tracking the way your breath becomes a series of jagged hitches.
“You gonna wriggle like that the whole time?” he mutters, his hand moving to squeeze a handful of your soft flesh.
“Trying to make me lose my fuckin’ mind?”
You whimper, your heart hammering against your ribs. He doesn't wait for an answer. He keeps going.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Every strike is controlled. Measured. He’s playing a beat into your very bones, and the rhythm is starting to turn your blood into liquid fire.
“You’re not even fighting it,” he mocks, leaning down until his lips are brushing the shell of your ear. “You love this. You’re so fuckin’ easy for me. I could throw you down, tear into you, and you wouldn’t even ask why, would you?”
Another slap lands, and this time, a raw, loud moan breaks from your throat. You can't help it; the overstimulation is starting to boil over. He leans down further, his teeth grazing your shoulder in a sharp, possessive bite.
“You’re mine,” he breathes, his scent surrounding you. “Mine to grab. Mine to bend. Mine to fuckin’ wear out.”
You nod against his thigh, your voice a fractured thread. “Yes.”
“Yes what?” he prompts, his hand hovering, waiting.
You swallow hard, the heat between your legs becoming unbearable. “Yes—yours.”
Slap.
“That’s right. My favorite little toy.”
His fingers dig into the marks he’s painting across your skin. You can feel the sheer size of him beneath you—the hard, heavy length of him pressing against your hip. You grind down against him, just a little, desperate for a different kind of friction.
He lets out a dark, strained groan. “You don’t get to tease me now,” he says, his voice dropping into a growl as he delivers another sharp slap. “Not when you’re the one laid out like a brat waiting to be used.”
You moan, your body burning with a hunger that feels like it’s going to consume you. It isn't pain anymore; it’s a desperate, pulsing heat in your teeth and in the wet sound of your breath. He slaps you again—just once—harder than all the others, making your vision blur for a split second.
Then, he stops. He lets his hand rest there, heavy and broad, pressing firmly over the sting.
He leans in close, his voice heavy in your ear. “I could fuck you just like this,” he murmurs. “Arched. Spanked raw. Still squirming like you’re begging for more.”
You shiver, your entire frame vibrating under his touch. He slides his fingers between your thighs, touching you once, a slow and deliberate stroke that makes you cry out. “Still so wet,” he teases, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Didn’t even need a reason to get you like this.”
He pulls his hand away, and the sound of his belt shifting is the loudest thing in the room. You hear his breath catch as he prepares himself.
“You want it?” he mutters.
You nod, desperate and ready to break for him. “Please. God, please.”
“Then keep still,” he commands, his voice turning cold and authoritative. “And don't you dare cum until I say so.”
He doesn't give you a second to breathe. He flips you over, his hands rough and certain as they grab your hips. He bends you forward until your chest hits the mattress, leaving your ass high, aching, and completely exposed.
“You look wrecked,” he mutters from behind you. You hear him adjusting himself, the sheer presence of him looming over you making the air feel thick. “Still twitching from the spanking and you’re already leaking for me.”
You whimper into the sheets, your fingers clutching the fabric. You can feel him now—hard, heavy, and massive. He drags the head of his dick through the mess, the friction making your hips buck involuntarily.
“Sloppy for me,” he rasps. “I’m gonna stretch you out so good.”He grabs himself, stroking twice, and then he pushes in. There is no warning.
It is just pure, unyielding pressure and a deep, heavy stretch that makes your breath punch out of you. He is so much bigger than what you’re used to, filling every inch of your entrance until you feel like you’re going to split.
“Fffuck, you’re so tight around me.”
He bottoms out in one steady, relentless thrust. His hips press flush against yours, his full weight pinning you into the bed. One of his massive hands stays locked on your lower back, holding you in place while he grinds in deeper, seeking the very back of you.
“Feel that?” he pants, his voice shaking with the effort of holding back. “That’s your spot. Right there.”
You let out a broken scream, your head tossing back. “Oh my god,” you breathe out, the honesty of the pleasure finally breaking through your pride. “You’re so... you’re so big. It feels so good.”
He let's out a low, mean chuckle that vibrates through your entire pelvis. He pulls back just enough to catch his breath before slamming back in, his dick angled so deep you see stars.
“Yeah? You like being filled up like this?” he grunts, his pace beginning to pick up. “You clamp around me like you’re begging to be broken. Like you want to drown in it.”
You try to speak, to tell him he's right, but all that comes out is a wrecked, wet moan. He leans over your back, his large hand finding a fistful of your hair. He pulls, forcing your head up so he can see your face in the mirror across the room.
“Look at you,” he praises, his voice thick with lust. “Getting fucked dumb, bruised up, and still so damn greedy for more of me.”
Then he starts moving in earnest. Hard. Heavy. Brutal.
His dick hits that same spot again and again—that one place that makes your legs lock and your brain turn to liquid. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows the size of him is a weapon, and he’s using it to ruin you.
And then—Smack.
He spanks you again, his open palm landing on your raw skin with a sharp crack. You jolt forward, your muscles spasming violently around him, clamping down on his length in a frantic rhythm.
“Oh yeah,” he groans, his own voice breaking. “You like that. You like being reminded who’s in control.”
His free hand slides down your front, his rough, hot fingers finding the sensitive space between your thighs. He doesn't care about being gentle; he plays with you like he owns every nerve ending in your body. He strokes messy, heavy circles, his thumb applying a pressure that makes you cry out in a high-pitched wail.
“Gonna make you cum just like this,” he mutters into your ear. “Fucked from behind, spanked raw, while I fill you from the inside.”
You choke on your breath, trying to brace yourself, but it’s impossible. He’s too deep, his thrusts too relentless. Your whole body is bouncing with the force of him, your knees going weak as he continues to pound against that one spot.
“There,” he grunts, his teeth gritting. “You feel that? That’s where I live now. That’s mine.”
Another thrust. Another sharp spank. Your whole body seizes, the pleasure turning into something that borders on a physical overload.
“You’re gonna cum,” he says, his voice a dark prophecy. “I know you are. Just a few more. Just like this, my pretty little slut.”
His rhythm turns sharp and cruel. Every stroke punches against your center, his fingers working you at the same time, his voice a constant, filthy stream of praise and commands. “Cum for me. Give it all to me right now.”
You do.You shatter. Your back arches, your thighs clench, and everything in your world narrows down to the feeling of him inside you. You wail into the mattress, your release hitting you so hard your body convulses in waves, your walls tightening around him in a desperate, rhythmic plea.
“God damn,” he grunts, his voice dropping into a guttural growl as he fucks you through the climax. He doesn't stop; he keeps spanking you between thrusts, riding the edge of your oversensitive twitching until he’s just as wrecked as you are.
You’re trembling. Spent. Completely undone.
And then he goes still.
He buries himself as deep as he can go, a low curse escaping him. He cums inside you with a heavy, soul-deep groan, his dick pulsing thick and hot while his hand stays fisted in your hair. He stays there, his full weight pressing you into the bed, his chest heaving against your back.
When he finally pulls out—slow, wet, and breathless—he grabs your ass one more time, his fingers digging into the marks he left.
“Next time,” he pants, his voice still thick with the aftermath, “I tie you up first. So you really can’t move while I’m using you.”
You would say yes. You would say anything he wanted. But you’re still twitching too hard to speak.
You’re slumped forward, your cheek pressed to the damp mattress, your body still jumping in little aftershocks. You think he’d stop. You think that after making you sob and filling you up, he’d let you catch your breath.
But he isn't finished with you.
He grabs you by the hips, his hands large and unyielding as he spreads you open again. He pushes two fingers inside—slow, thick, and deep.
You jolt, a choked sound leaving your throat.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, his chest pressed to your back. “Don’t squirm now. We’re not done yet.”
You whimper, the stretch of his fingers feeling massive after the intensity of his length. You're still slick, still sore, but he doesn't care about your comfort.
“Gotta keep you full,” he mutters, curling his fingers just enough to make your hips twitch. “Can’t waste what I gave you.”
His other hand rests on your lower back, heavy and grounding, reminding you that you aren't going anywhere.
“You took me so good. Came all over yourself like you were starving for it.”
His fingers start to move—slow, deliberate thrusts that drag against that same spot, making your thighs shake all over again. You moan and try to crawl forward, your body bucking against the renewed sensation.
He presses your hips down, hard. “Where the fuck do you think you’re goin'?”
You gasp, the air leaving your lungs. He leans over your back, his breath warm and humid against your shoulder.
“I said we’re not done,” he croons, his voice low and dangerous. “You stay still, you take my fingers, and you say thank you.”
You shake your head, your mind a buzzing mess of overstimulation. You can't even think, let alone speak.
Smack.
His palm lands on your sore ass again, sharp and final.
“Try again.”
You bite your lip, gasping the words through a throat that has gone raw from screaming. “Thank you.”
He hums, the sound vibrating against your spine. He’s still moving inside you, deep and rhythmic.
“Again.”
You cry it now, the desperation taking over. “Thank you—ahmn—God, it feels so good...”
“For what?” he asks, his fingers curling with a cruel precision.You don’t answer fast enough.
Another thrust. Deeper. He’s stretching you out, his thumb finding your center and applying that heavy, agonizing pressure.
“Say it.”
Your voice cracks. “F-for... fucking me. For filling me up. For making me—mghn—fuck—cum again...”
He groans, his fingers working you perfectly. “Good toy,” he mutters, the praise making your heart swell even as your body breaks. “Took all of it. Gonna take more.”
You tremble, your body reaching its limit, but he doesn't let up. He pulls his fingers out just enough to watch your entrance clench around nothing, then pushes them back in, grinding the heel of his palm against you with a heavy, crushing force.
You cry out, a sound that is half-pleasure and half-overload.“Gonna milk my fingers too, baby?” he asks, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You really that fuckin’ needy for me?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re panting too hard, your vision swimming. But your body is already there—twitching around him, dripping, clenching tight as another wave of release builds in your gut.
He smirks. He can feel it.
“Yeah. That’s it.” His voice drops low, nearly reverent, but still carrying that sharp edge of command. “Come on, baby. Make a mess for me. Let me see how good you break.”
You do. Again. Your body locks up, your breath catching in your throat, as you come hard around his fingers. He works you through every single pulse, staying inside, holding you open, making sure you feel every bit of the ruin he’s caused.
Finally, he stops. He pulls his hand away and lets you fall. He presses a lingering kiss to your spine, right between your shoulder blades.
Then he leans in, his voice low and steady. “Mine,” he whispers. “Always mine.”
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- I'm totally straight, but I support all genders, all preferences, and human rights.
- I don't do face pics, and I often choose to not answer certain personal questions. I value privacy.
- I love getting pictures of you, but I don't ask for them. I prefer the gift of an unsolicited picture. It's an honor to receive. Pressuring anyone for pictures is simply wrong.
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- I like to queue a lot since I'm a busy man. However, I respond pretty quickly to most messages. Now, see below.
- Feel free to message. I rarely message first, since you probably get many. Also, I don't chase attention. I don't answer DMs that are from empty or questionable blogs, and I ignore one or two word DMs.
- I never send hate, anon or otherwise. I do send compliments and kindness if posts move me to do it. I do not expect a reply, since most ladies on here seem to be inundated with messages.
- I've been asked about how I'd define my sexual tendencies. I'd say I'm generally a good, kind man who can be very loving and romantic, but also mixed with rough, Dom, or Daddy roles. I like a variety to fulfill my ravenous, rapacious, and passionate appetites.
- I'm polite and kind, and yes, after all these years, still a bit lustful. I will still be a gentleman, unless enticed or provoked.
I hope you enjoy the posts. Thanks for being here!
currently working on a meta about how Armand's little tale about his time with Lestat is actually the scaffolding upon which the entirety of season one stands...
He's still moving slowly as he withdraws from you, dragging those infernal ridges along your straining walls until you are nearly empty, only the tip of him holding you open. You whimper, partly with the loss of his heat, but partly with relief and bite your lip, watching him with a nervous flutter in your chest. He pauses there, regarding you with a mysterious little smile, savoring the anticipation in your eyes. Your only warning is the quick clamp of his strong hands, talons indenting your shoulder, before he flexes his hips and plunges deep, hollowing your core and battering against the very end of your tight tunnel, filling you to the limit and beyond in one powerful stroke. You arch against him, a shocked little scream erupting from your lips. He quickly captures your voice with his mouth, drinking your cries and grinding against you until you're frantically clawing at his back, your shaking legs dropping to the sides, unable to wrap around him anymore.
He stops, raises his head, and gives you what can only be described as a devilish grin, flashing sharp white teeth with regained confidence. His strength is incredible, and he knows that you are completely helpless beneath him. He obviously likes that condition and is going to take full advantage.
"More?" He inquires, his voice rough and low, still smiling as he jerks his hips forward a few times, not withdrawing, only stretching you further. Unable to trust your voice you nod frantically, panting with the intensity of the sensations he's wringing from your body.
"Hold on," he growls as he releases your shoulder and hand to capture one of your legs behind the knee and bring it up to open you further, supporting his weight with his other hand. You grip his arms tightly, but he shakes his head, giving another quick thrust, obviously enjoying your gasp. "You know where," he snarls, dipping his head slightly to show you what he wants. You release his arms and move your trembling hands up to curl around his horns, simultaneously feeling his tail lash around your free leg, holding firmly. He's not going to let you escape who he is, what he is, and what you've so brashly gotten yourself into.
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The dark times are now: two-color silkscreen print by @erikruin, made from two individual pieces of cut paper. The text is taken from a series of poems by Bertholdt Brecht entitled "The Svendborg Poems", written during his exile in Denmark during World War 2.
Your wrists are bound behind your back, tight and high between your shoulder blades. Ankles wide, knees sinking into the sheets. You're already shaking. Already dripping. And he hasn’t even touched you yet.
He’s sitting back against the headboard, broad, solid, legs spread. One hand resting on his thigh, the other lazily stroking himself while he watches you try to breathe through it.
“You’re taking your sweet fuckin’ time,” he says, voice low and full of that rough disapproval that makes your stomach flip. “Wasn’t this what you wanted? Hm?”
You bite your lip. Wobble your hips. Try to lift yourself onto him, knees trembling without your hands to help you balance. He chuckles meanly. Doesn’t lift a finger.
“No, don’t ask for help now,” he says. “You wanted to ride. You begged for it. So go on.”
You let out a desperate breath. Lower yourself, thighs trembling, until the thick head of his dick presses just barely where you need it.
He watches you. Doesn’t blink.
“You even gonna be able to take it?” he says. “You’re all wobbly. Shakin’. Don’t go dumb on me already, baby—we haven’t even started.”
You whimper. And then you sink down. It’s instant that burn, that stretch, that raw, impossible fullness. You moan like you can’t help it, chest arching, back tensing against the strain of your bound arms.
He groans low more possessive than pleased.
“There you go,” he breathes. “Take it all. Mghn—Fuck, that’s tight.”
You bottom out and shudder. You’re trembling from trying to keep yourself upright hands bound, thighs screaming, sweat starting to slick your skin already.
He leans forward just a little. Slaps your thigh.
“Move.”
You flinch. He grins.
“You're not just gonna lay there and look ruined, sweetheart. You’re gonna use me. Come on, fuck that desperate little hole on me like you're supposed to.”
You bite back a moan. Start to move. Slow at first lifting and rolling your hips, breath catching every time you drop down again. His dick drags against your insides just right, just sharp enough to make your vision spot.
“Look at that,” he says, watching every twitch, every bounce. “Barely holding yourself up. Whinin’ already.”
You gasp your arms burn behind you, tied tight, no leverage to steady yourself. Just your thighs, your will, and his filthy words.
“You look so pretty like this,” he murmurs, tone dark and lazy. “Bet you can feel me everywhere, huh?”
You nod, panting.
He reaches up, grabs your jaw. Tilts your face down to meet his eyes.
“I wanna see it when you lose it,” he says. “You hear me? Keep lookin’ at me while you ride me like a good fuckin’ toy.”
You cry out—louder now—as you bounce harder, sloppier, your body folding into itself. Your legs start to shake, thighs spasming, breath hitching in and out of your chest.
You’re close. Too close. And he knows.
He grabs your hip, slams you down harder. Keeps you there.
“You gonna cum like this? Tied up, no hands, ridin’ me like you’re fuckin’ starved for it?”
You whimper. Nod. Plead.
“Do it,” he rasps. “Come on. Cum for me. Prove who owns this dick.”
You fall apart—everything clenching, locking, shattering around the thick, brutal pressure of him inside you. You gasp his name, head thrown back, back arching hard.
And then he moves.
He starts fucking up into you—brutal, deep thrusts while you’re still trembling from the high, while your arms are still bound, while you can’t do anything but take it.
You scream. You can’t help it.
“You thought we were done?” he snaps. “Nah. I ain’t lettin’ you off that easy.”
You’re drooling. Shaking. Wrecked. And he’s loving it. One hand gripping your hip, the other sliding between your cheeks to stroke right over your slick hole.
“Look at this mess,” he says. “All this for me. And you ain’t even touched yourself once.”
You moan—it’s too much, you can’t keep up—“Yeah,” he rasps. “Now ride.”
You do. Broken. Gutted. Unraveling all over again with his dick still thick and heavy inside you. And when he cums—loud, possessive, still holding your hip like he owns every twitch in your body—he keeps you there.
Still tied. Still full. Still shaking.
“Next time,” he breathes, lips brushing your shoulder, “I tie you tighter. And make you cum ‘til you cry for me.”
𒈔ٍ⃛
You're still shaking. Arms pulled behind you, wrists bound raw. Hips trembling. His cum leaking out of you, slick between your thighs, staining your skin and the sheets beneath.
He hasn’t untied you. He hasn’t moved.
Just sits back against the headboard, chest rising slow, cock still wet and half-hard between his thighs. Watching you like he’s not finished—because he’s not.
“You think we’re done?” he says, voice low, still catching on breath. “That you get to just lay there, leakin’ all pretty, after ridin’ me like that? Half-assed?”
You don’t answer. Can’t. Not with your throat dry and your brain fogged. He leans forward, grabs your chin.
“Didn’t fuck that mouth,” he murmurs. “Guess I oughta fix that.”
You whine. He smirks.
“C’mere.”
He manhandles you down, rough but sure—fists in your hair, dragging you off his lap and onto your knees between his legs. You’re still bound, arms behind your back, shoulders aching. You wobble. He spreads his thighs wider, slaps his heavy cock across your cheek.
“Open.”
You do. Mouth wide, lips slick, eyes already glassy.
“Yeah,” he mocks. “That’s what I thought.”
He guides your head down, lets you wrap your lips around him. You taste yourself. Him. Sweat and filth and ownership.
And he doesn’t let you go slow. He rocks up into your mouth—steady thrusts, cock dragging along your tongue, pushing deep. You gag. He groans.
“Damn... that mouth,” he mutters. “So soft. So good. Should’ve fucked your face first.”
You choke again—spit spilling down your chin. He doesn’t stop.
“You like that?” he askes. “Tied up, gettin’ used like a fuckin' slut?”
You moan. He slaps your cheek with the head of his cock again.
“Sloppy mess. That’s what you are. You gonna clean me up like a good little thing, or I gotta choke it down your throat myself?”
You answer the only way you can—swallowing him deep, sucking hard, tongue messy and hungry as you hollow your cheeks.
He hisses, hand tight in your hair.
“Just like that,” he breathes. “Take all of it. Worship it. Show me how good you take it.”
You suck harder. Filthy. Desperate. He twitches in your mouth. Grunts. Hips stuttering.
“Fffuck. Gonna make me cum again. Gonna fill that throat until you're choking on it.”
You moan around him, swallowing when he hits the back of your throat. Your eyes water. Your jaw aches. Your arms burn. And you love it.
He cums with a curse—deep, hot, brutal. His grip tight in your hair. His thighs tensed around your head. You gag once, twice, but you don’t pull back.
You take it. All of it.
When he finally lets go, you’re still panting, spit-slick and ruined. He grabs your jaw, makes you look up at him.
“Now that’s a fuckin’ sight,” he mutters. “Mouth wrecked. Body used. And still so fuckin’ eager.”
You can’t speak. He leans down, kisses your forehead. Tender in a cruel way.
“All mine,” he whispers.
And you know it’s true, because you’re still on your knees waiting for more.
