Even as a foolish boy it seemed strange to me that anyone would want to get literally boned. What exactly is it about shoving a washboard up somebody’s coochie that apparently resonates? I’ve never met a woman who was into it. Look at their dildos! Draconic cervix traumatizers notwithstanding I don’t see a lot of ribbing going on.
Omg, absolutely drooling over here, fantasizing about swallowing you on a regular basis. Hot as fuck.
Fewer questions, more face-fucking please mistress. Grab my hair and grind your hips like you’re trying to start a fire. If I’m not concerned for my own safety it doesn’t count. Drown me.
I mean… I like it. Socially obfuscated power dynamics, especially gendered ones, have caused me a lot of discomfort and confusion. BDSM stimulates me because it’s exciting and cathartic to drop the complicated, ambiguous facade of hierarchical etiquette and engage with power directly. I enjoy it in both directions but usually only one way with a particular person. There is some objective power delta between any two subjects. Either embracing or defying it can be satisfying. It’s about clarity.
How am I supposed to masturbate if I can’t stop laughing?
My crotch is known to the haggard denizens of the margins of civilization as a mythic beast whose furious bloodlust is channeled only by the future position of Saturn. Legions of imperial forces have been reduced to a broken wake—an omen—of burned and twisted armor; this path of wreckage is the only pattern. Kings, prophets, wizards, tacticians, and metaphysicians have failed to predict the vastness of the legendary devastation. Death herself has remained a shimmering silhouette on the horizon. The only relevant limit is the sanity of the beholder.