Latest Posts by ultrac0rrupt3d - Page 2
Just women in general
Gotta love chatting and flirting with women here, some of whom i have tattoos older than
That's so me core
like it’s pathetic
i know that you don't love me anymore
NEED THAT
I could kiss her all day.
That's the kind of intimacy I CRAVE
Need need need need need need need need
how girlbloggers fit check
back when everything was glittery 🎼
first pic made by me :p
( ╥‸╥ ) ⏦ﾟ♡︎
golden time
lady, running down to the riptide
taken away to the dark side
i wanna be your left hand man
i love you when you're singing that song and
i got a lump in my throat cause
you're gonna sing the words wrong
We all are good girls!!!
Strawberries cherries and an angel's kiss in spring
A man who looks and acts like him🙏🙏🙏
I could fix her but I like her the way she is
i love being a little freak on tumblr nobody can stop me
Rien ; Marquis de Gramont x Reader
summary: You get a new job as stablehand at the luxurious palace of Marquis de Gramont, and the job is everything you thought it be. Marquis, however, isn't.
word count & w a r n i n g s: 4.7K | French dialogue (translations provided), smut with a sprinkling of plot, fingering, female reader, dirty talk, degradation (name calling, spanking), humiliation, abuse of power / power play, manipulation, Vincent being an absolute asshole (because he is one), abuse of power, brief food play, uhhhh - I think that's it.
a/n: deepest apologies for any errors in the French; I studied it in briefly in college and speak like a child. I tried to use google translate as little as possible, so most of this is just... painfully scraped from the confines of my mind. banners by @/saradika and @/strangergraphics!
↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!
Exactly two weeks after you’d started working for him, you’d laid eyes on the elusive Marquis. Most of the time, you were ordered by other staff to ready and bring out a specific horse before returning to your duties, never interacting with the infamous owner. However, one afternoon, he, the Marquis, walked through the stables himself. You had been brushing Bellefleur, a beautiful mare with the temperament of an angel, when you heard his voice echoing through the paddocks. He was speaking angrily about a man whom you didn’t know, discussing matters that didn’t concern you. You peeked up over the edge of the stable as he approached.
It had been audacious to speak to him at all, considering, but something in your gut moved your limbs without thinking. You took two large steps backwards, moving your body into the opening of the stable.
“Bonjour, monsieur.” (Good morning, sir.)
He stopped walking, hands in his pockets. He seemed to consider that he’d just been spoken to, but finally asked what your name was. You told him, albeit somewhat shyly, unsure of whether or not this would result in you losing your job.
There was no reply, however before continuing on down the long pathway, his heavy, lascivious gaze lingered on your body for far too long to be considered accidental. You had looked down at your own image, wondering what it was that he saw. The tightness of your uniform, perhaps. To a man’s gaze, the way your breasts filled your blouse, the way your trousers hugged your soft thighs and rounded out over the curve of your rear could be cause for a persistent gaze.
The visits to the paddocks became more frequent after that.
Some days, he was very cordial, responding curtly, but acknowledging you all the same. He went to you directly to retrieve the horses, fulfilling you with a false sense of importance and power. Other days, he ignored you altogether, dismissing your existence as easily as hay on the ground. So, why had you been developing a lust for the man? With so few interactions and none of them tempting in nature, it was almost embarrassing.
Today is not one of the days where he ignores you.
“Rien,” he growls from behind you. (Nothing.) You hadn’t even heard him come in, nor had you heard his approaching footsteps. You turn abruptly to face him and like usual, are staggered by the way he looks. He’s dressed immaculately, this time, wearing a light grey suit.
“Rien?” you ask, confused. The brush drifts away from Eclair’s neck as your hand falls to your side. “Monsieur?” (Sir?)
“That’s what you are. You are nothing. As much as they are nothing to me, you are nothing.” He gestured dismissively, you assumed, to the other stablehands.
Your brows knit together, visibly offended. “I…”
You blink, stopping yourself from continuing any further. Though the Marquis spoke perfect English, you’d been told that he preferred his employees to speak in French when addressing him. Something to do with respect.
He continues. “And yet…”
Feeling the need to swallow, you wet your throat and find your words. “J-je ne suis pas sûr de comprendre, monsieur… Je…” (I’m not sure I understand, sir.)
You swallow again, and look up into his piercing green eyes. “Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire?” (What do you mean?)
He grabs your chin hard between his thumb and forefinger, pulling it up towards him. The harshness of the action startles you and the brush goes clattering to the cement floor, echoing throughout the paddocks. The closeness, though laced with hostility, has you throbbing between your legs.
“You don’t understand what I mean?” His French accent is heavy, dripping like cream from his tongue.
You shake your head, wincing as his fingers dig deeper into your jawline. “Non, j-je suis désolée.” (No, I-I’m sorry.)
“I know it’s difficult for you to express yourself in my native tongue, ma petite.” (My little one.) You furrow your brows; he was so insulting without even trying. So insulting, in fact, that you can’t even focus on the charming little nickname he threw in. Wanting to prove him wrong, you clench your jaw as you take a step back, weakly attempting to pull yourself from his grasp. Your father had taught you French from the time you were a baby, you spoke it very well, and you –
“Look at you,” he starts, his eyes sweeping over every feature on your face. “Tending to my horses every day. Cleaning their shit from the ground on which they walk. Pauvre petite chose…” (Poor little thing)
As he speaks, you’re at a loss for words, unsure of how to proceed, how to answer him. Your ego is bruised and your jaw is sure to follow; the harder you try to wrench your face from his grip, the harder that grip presses into you, digging into the bone beneath the flesh. He bends down, putting his mouth dangerously close to your face, close enough to feel the heat that radiates between you two.
“J’en ne pas stupide.” (I’m not stupid.) He snips, looking down at you with unbridled hostility.
He repeats the words against the shell of your ear, which sends a vicious shiver down your spine. Your cunt twinges with heat again, and the shuddering doesn’t stop – as though you’ve been out in the cold, freezing from a winter’s chill, your body quivers deep within your core.
“Je sais...” (I know) You acknowledge feebly. A blush crawls up the column of your neck.
“I see the way in which you look at me. It is not a secret, you know?”
He takes a single step forward, closing in the distance between your bodies. With no indication, no warning, his free hand cups your cunt outside of your pants, fingers stretching down between your legs. You inhale to gasp, to ask him what he’s doing, but the hand that holds your jaw slips fluidly over your mouth, silencing it. You gaze up into his eyes, searching them for an explanation, but he’s too busy to look at you, to give you any sort of comfort. Instead, he’s locked on the mound between your thighs, watching as his own fingers explore over the fabric, already feeling the damp heat that penetrates the fabric.
At this taste of what’s beneath, Vincent’s long, lithe fingers then make quick work of your trousers, opening the front of them and deftly slipping inside. You freeze, knowing that your body is about to betray you. Violently. Cruelly. His digits dig past the warmth of your folds, slipping past your quickly swelling clit, delving deeper. The brief contact is enough to send you toppling into his arms, but somehow, you stay upright and instead, tighten your fists into fleshy wads. The pads of his middle and ring finger smear at your entrance, searching for the answer to a question he didn’t ask. He taps your leaking slit a few times with a lazy curiosity. Immediately, you can feel your slick stringing from your cunt, spreading easily over your folds.
“You’re wet,” he hisses. “Whore.”
Somehow, you feel the word before you hear it. It lands like a crushing slap to the face, and your cunt responds by clenching hard, leaking more out into Vincent’s waiting fingers. They twitch against you, pressing to your entrance and slipping inside just enough to make your knees buckle.
He walks you back against the wood, sandwiching you between Eclair and the door. You strain against his grip again, flitting your gaze towards the horse whose ears twitch but other than that small movement, doesn’t seem bothered by the altercation happening next to him. Almost embarrassed, you whimper softly and look back to the Marquis; his gaze is on you now, watching every miniscule flicker of emotion. Your brows knit together as you shake your head in disbelief, unsure of what is happening.
“Hm?” He prods your entrance with his middle finger, inserting it to the first joint. Your mind buzzes, blanking on words – in any language. It slips in further with no resistance and your lids flutter helplessly, as the sensations take control of your body. Searching, scrambling for stability, you flatten your palms against the cool, smooth wood of the stable. A bridle hangs down next to your pinky finger, and you have half a mind to wrap it tightly around your hand.
Crooking his finger slightly, he pumps it slowly in and out of your wet cunt. “You like that, no?”
His slow ministrations have you reeling, shivering in front of him. Silently, you wonder what would happen if you said yes. You open your eyes to his, and swallow. Up until now, you stood on your tiptoes, trying to escape his lewd actions, but now, you let your weight down, pushing his finger in all the way to the knuckle. His finger curls, hitting a deeper spot within you that has your toes curling within your boots. Your eyes roll back in your head at this, feeling overwhelmed. Weakly and awkwardly, you stumble over your next words, mumbling them clumsily into his fingers. “… qu’est-ce que tu fais…?” (What are you doing?)
He chuckles through his nose – at what, you don’t know – but as quickly as his hand has slipped in, it disappears, leaving you to pitch forward slightly into his long torso. He examines his finger briefly, which glistens with your arousal. With no regard for your own pleasure, he shoulders you off, and retracts his other hand from your mouth, allowing your breath to tumble out. Wordlessly, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a white handkerchief, hastily wiping his fingers on it before tucking it back into the confines of his slacks.
You collapse against the wood once more, your chest heaving with laboured, confused exhalations. This time, Eclair shifts away from you slightly, and huffs out a breath. The Marquis watches you, the hints of a smirk upon his shapely, seductive lips. Though you were still fully dressed, you felt unnervingly exposed. Humiliated, even. You reach forward to button yourself back up, doing your best not to fumble with the clasps.
“Follow me.”
Before you can blink, he’s already left the stable. You hurriedly exit, and grip the handle of the door, sliding it shut before securing the latch. The Marquis is already briskly walking away, his long strides carrying him farther and farther away from you, fully confident that you’re following him. As quietly as possible, you trot up behind him, not wanting to irritate him by being slow. The warm smell of wood shavings fills your nostrils as you run, but the second you’re behind him, you’re assaulted with the rich, expensive scent of his cologne. You inhale it deeper, wanting it to stain your lungs.
As you follow him through the grounds, you take in your surroundings, head swinging to and fro to gobble up the visuals of unknown territory. You only ever got to see the stables and the fields behind it, which was necessary for riding and walking the horses. Naturally, your curiosity is peaked when he leads you both inside the towering, luxurious palace he calls home. Down opulent hall after opulent hall, with attendants opening each and every door that he comes to, you finally make it to your destination.
The room is massive, and seems to glitter with all the gold details. You’ve never been to Versailles, but you assume the grandeur is similar. It’s sparse in furniture, save for a red velvet couch near the entrance. At the end of the room, sits a large table, adorned with every cake and pastry you could dream of; tiny crystal dishes of raspberries and strawberries, plates of cakes and cookies. They’re all picturesque, and the air is cloying, heavy with the scent of sugars and fragrant fruits.
He beckons you with two fingers – a specific choice. A violent chill runs down your spine, feeling like there’s ice water cascading down the length of it. Once you’re standing next to him, looking at the dishes in front of you, you feel the weight of his aura, his existence. A few moments ago, you were merely a stablehand. Now, you were something else – you knew not what yet – standing inside the palace, a place where very few had the privilege of being. The tension between you two weighs heavy on your shoulders.
Abruptly, the Marquis reaches over to pinch your mouth open, squeezing hard until your jaws pop apart. You wince, but succumb to his touch, albeit a little too easily. While watching intently, he brings a cream puff to your mouth, setting it carefully on your tongue. Instincts kick in, and you close your mouth, chewing carefully as cream oozes out from between the layers of fine puff pastry, and you swallow it down.
He clocks your satisfied reaction, and smirks. “Delicious, isn’t it?”
You nod apprehensively. It is delicious, of course, though your thoughts are tangled in the undisclosed eroticism of the moment, and the sickeningly unobvious reason why he’s brought you here. He picks up a macaron and carefully takes a bite, holding his other hand underneath his mouth to catch any crumbs, though none fall.
“Comment dit-on… gourmand de sucreries?” (How do you say… greedy for sweets?)
“Sweet tooth,” you breathe, suspecting he already knew the answer. “You have a sweet tooth.”
“Mmm. I do.” The sound is syrupy within his throat.
Surely, he hasn’t brought you here to enjoy some pastries. You swallow again, and muster up the courage to ask him: “Que voulez-vous de moi?” (What do you want from me?)
You brace for the oncoming response, half expecting him to say rien again. Instead, he finishes the macaron, and turns to you again, leaning forward. He reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair from your cheek, combing it gently behind your ear, and hums, his fingers lingering on the softness of your jaw. His voice is hushed as he tilts his head down to look at you.
“Tout. Je veux tout.” (Everything. I want everything.)
With your faces inches apart, the Marquis de Gramont captures your mouth in a searing kiss, one that oozes dominance, staking his claim in your core. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, prodding past your lips and teeth until it finds your own wet muscle. Instinctively, you kiss him back, but your frazzled nerves inhibit any true passion. Your lust is clouded by uncertainness, tainting the otherwise intoxicating experience at hand. His hand flies to the nape of your neck where he pulls you closer, deeper. You taste his essence and raspberry-flavored remnants of the macaron, and you swallow into the kiss, your lids fluttering helplessly. But no…
You jerk your head back away from him. Your tongue sweeps out over your bottom lip, cleaning up the mutual saliva that has spread across it.
“J'en suis pas une pute.” (I’m not a whore.)
With his hand still on your neck, he laughs, the sound vibrating in his throat. “You will be.”
And again, his mouth is on yours, hungrily claiming it as though he deserved it. Which, in his mind, you knew, he did. He deserved everything he wanted, and perhaps, that was the essence of why you were here – he wanted you, so he’d have you.
He continues to kiss you in such a way that leaves you gasping for air – literally – and every time you do, his mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, your ear. Refusing to remove his lips from your body, he’s ravenous, devouring you like he would the sweets on the table.
“Monsieur,” you plead, babbling senselessly. “Monsieur,… why?”
“Because,” he hums into the crook of your neck. “Ahh, you weren’t listening, were you?” He clicks his tongue in disappointment before continuing. “As I said before, I see the way in which you look at me, watch me, desire me.” He presses a long, tender kiss just below your ear, and his hand ghosts up over your stomach, coming to rest on the fullness of your breast. “And because, I want it.”
He’s unbuttoning your blouse before you can stop him. Not that you’d want to, anyway; you’d been dreaming about this for weeks. As he works to expose your chest to him, carefully slipping each button from its slit, he murmurs into your collarbone, the feeling sending another convulsive shiver down your back.
“Tell me… Do you value your position?”
You nod hurriedly, hoping to convince him. A single, long finger ghosts your shoulder, trailing down your arm. “Then you agree to be my little slut, hm? For me to use whenever I desire, oui?” (Yes?)
While the realization hits you like a ton of bricks, you gulp down your words. There’s no sense in protesting to preserve your feeble morals; not when you want him the way you do, and not with your job at stake. He reaches around your back, undoing the clasp of the bra. Your tits fall free then, and his large comes to cup one of them, kneading the supple, pliant flesh while your nipple grazes the smooth skin of his palm. You whimper, your hand jerking up to grip his bicep. The stimulation entices your arousal further, warmth pooling between your legs again. He worsens your condition by rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulling a pathetic sounding mewl from your lips. You roll your eyes to the ceiling, silently cursing him.
His hands move away from your breast, up to your face, where roughly, he prods your mouth with his fingers, examining your teeth and tongue. Much like he would a horse, you realize. The sensation is terrifying, but erotic and you grip his arm harder. Wordlessly, he reaches behind him to the table filled with decadence, and with two fingers again, scoops up a healthy dollop of cream frosting from atop a cake.
“Suck them,” he growls.
It’s a command, not a suggestion, and you obey it, drawing them into your mouth tentatively. Your lips – bruised and swollen from his assaulting kisses – tighten, closing around his digits, all while maintaining eye contact with him. As though you were starved for it, you suck gently, while your tongue begins to swipe back and forth, removing all traces of the cream. You weren’t an idiot – this was a test. A test which you pass with flying colours apparently, because the Marquis actually smiles as he withdraws his fingers from the warm confines of your mouth.
Heat roils in your core as he disconnects from you, and you can do nothing but watch as he pushes the delicate dishes to the left, haphazardly clearing a space on the table. Your eyes sweep back and forth, watching as the cakes and pastries crowd each other. He doesn’t seem to care, single-mindedly only thinking of what he’s about to do to you. He turns back to you, his green eyes burning with arousal. Again, the Marquis unbuttons your pants, this time, aggressively pulling down the zip. He gestures to the table with a nod of his head. He doesn’t have to tell you what to do – you know what he wants.
In silence, you take your place in front of the table, and hinge your body at the waist to bend over the ornate surface. Cruelly, he yanks your pants over the plush curve of your ass, exposing you to him. There is another rustle of fabric behind you as the Marquis frees his own aching arousal from his slacks. You hear him hiss through his teeth; you presume as he takes his dick into his hand. Your body jolts forward as you feel the pads of his fingers prod tease your leaking slit, smearing your arousal through your folds.
His hand stretches over your ass, taking a fist full of it before drifting down. He reaches your cunt, admiring her from behind. With a hitched breath, he pulls apart your folds with the pad of his thumb, revealing your aching, wet center.
“C’est parfait… mm.” (It’s perfect…)
Praise? From him? You swallow the lump in your throat.
He shuffles behind you, bringing his body closer. That’s when you feel it; the searing hot head of his cock pushing insistently against your clenching slit. You whine and press your thighs tightly together, a desperate attempt to alleviate the building pressure. Futile, because the moment he notices this, he kicks your legs apart with the toe of his polished shoe.
“Dis-moi que tu veux que je te baise.” (Tell me you want me to fuck you.)
“Please…. Please.”
A hand comes down upon your ass cheek, the sound of it echoing throughout the room like a gunshot. The pain sears through your nervous system as the skin swells up, blooming like a flower with the imprint of his hand. “You can do better than that!”
You try again, this time in French. You knew he was condescending about you speaking French, but there was a deep rooted need to prove that you could. “B-baise-moi… baise-moi, s’il te plait, monsieur.” (Fuck me, fuck me please monsieur.)
He chuckles, and you just know he’s shaking his head, perhaps calling you The American in his mind. He presses the heavy tip deeper into your folds, smearing it down over your swelling clit and combining both your fluids. Your hips jerk instinctively, and your brain stutters as you try to speak. The arousal that leaked from your core had become too much. Much to your dismay, it was too difficult to think in another language and you whined desperately. He lifts his hand high and hardly pauses before he brings it down for another series of sharp smacks to your ass. You make a fist around nothing, wincing as the skin starts to flush an erotic, rosy hue. With each one, your cunt aches, confused by the melange of pain and pleasure that coursed through your body.
“Count them for me.”
You do. Your weak and tiny voice counts the resounding strikes, feeling the heat spread across your skin like fire. “One… t-two… three… four… five - ah! Six!”
He interrupts you suddenly to ask: “You know my name, non?”
The assumption spoke volumes. You nod against the table, relieved that the assault on your ass had stopped.
“Use it.”
Almost uncertain, you murmur his name. “V-Vincent… please fuck me, I want your cock so bad. I have since… since I started working for you. Please.”
A guttural sound vibrated his throat. It made sense; everyone called him Marquis. Marquis de Gramont. Monsieur. But no one called him by his birth name, and that, had become erotic to him, hearing it tumble off your lips in a desperate, wanton tone.
He was rotten, cruel and terrible, and in any other situation, your last words would’ve been a lie. But here, they weren’t and you knew it. Despite all your trepidation, you knew they rang true. His cockhead lines up to your entrance, prodding it hungrily, and he leans his hips into yours. With a quirk jerk, he forces himself inside, breaching your aching heat. He bottoms out, sinking in until the flesh of his torso is pressed against your ass. The feeling is all consuming, immediately, filling you to the brim.
Your mouth opens in a silent scream, unable to vocalize the staggering sensations that rip through your body as he splits you open. He finds a bullying pace quickly, fucking you hard against the table. Your hips bump into the ornately trimmed edge, no doubt bruising them. After a few deep thrusts, he pauses, withdrawing his cock to the tip, only to slam it all the way back in with a deep, strained groan.
“Fuck,” you whine, your cheek smashed against the table. “Fuck, please.”
Vincent pays you no mind, your plea serving only as fuel to continue his assault on your sopping cunt. His hands grip your hips tight, pulling them back towards him with each thrust. The room is filled with the lewd melody of skin slapping against skin, fine china clattering against each other, and the mixture of his grunts, moans and your desperate, pathetic whines. You can’t help them, try as you might, because the vicious way in which he fucks into you rocks your whole body.
“Dis-moi,” he grunts, his accent heavy with arousal. “...dis-moi comment ma bite se sent bien en toi.” (Tell me how good my cock feels inside you.)
You understand his words, but you’ll be damned if you can formulate so much as a yes in French at this point. Your gaze grows hazy, lids heavy as his dick pounds into you. “It feels… it’s so fucking good, Vincent! Fuck! Harder. Harder!”
His hand comes crashing down on your ass again with a thwack! You cry out, hot tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
“Don’t…” He breathes, struggling with his own words. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”
Spoiled, you think. Spoiled brat. But, regardless of him not wanting to be told what to do, his hunger for your trumps his indignancy, because his hips buck into you with a newfound power, slamming his body against yours with abandon. The head of his cock bumps into your cervix over and over again, hammering it. You feel the coil in your stomach wind tighter around itself, a telltale pressure building deep within. Your walls clench around him warningly.
As if he realizes that he’s just done exactly what you told him to – or perhaps he feels your cunt’s desperate tugging – the Marquis pulls his cock from your wet slit with a shlick and roughly grips you at the shoulder, spinning you around. With no effort, he hoists you up into his arm, his cock bobbing below you. Your ass bumps against the table as he sits you down, dragging you to the edge of the table. He looks down at your cunt, already swollen and red, and brings his fingers to it, slipping them inside. He then brings them to his mouth, sucking your combined arousals from his fingers. You watch, enrapt.
“Remember what you said to me earlier, about not being a whore?”
You nodded, panting.
“Do you still feel that way?”
You hesitate, but ultimately, shake your head. You’re a slut for him, a slut for the way he fucks you, uses you. The concept alone is enough to make you come, but you don’t, eagerly waiting for his cock again. He exhales through his nose, smirking. “I didn’t think so.”
With his hands bearing down on your hips, he sheaths himself inside of you again, burying himself. The new angle brings a strangled cry from your lips, echoing in the vastness of the room. It doesn’t take long for you to come back to the high of your orgasm, having been edged before.
“Regarde-moi.” (Look at me.)
You do. Your half-lidded gaze connects with his intense one, watching him. You reach up, allowing one hand to grip his shoulder, digging your nails into the fibers of his fine suit jacket, while the other lays atop the nape of his neck, feeling the damp, warm skin there. His fingers blindly find your thigh, slipping underneath it to pull it up to your chest, pulling your ankle atop one of his shoulders.
“Uhh fuck–!” he groans, shivering at the new depth he reaches. “Fuck!”
All at once, his hips start bucking into you with a frenzied rage. You feel his muscles tighten against your thigh just before his cock jerks inside you, twitching as the first wave of his orgasm hits him. White, hot ropes of cum glaze your insides, coating you in pearlescence. The feeling draws you over the edge, and your cunt flutters around his dick, coating it in your own searing arousal.
For a moment, he stays there, resting his sweaty forehead against your own. Your leg falls heavily back against the table, rattling the dishes next to you. The sound rouses him out of his post-coital stupor, and with a deep sigh, he slowly withdraws his softening cock from you, pulling a gush of his release out with it. You, completely fucked out, could do nothing but sit there, arms quivering as you hold yourself upright.
He brought his fingers to your entrance, swiping up some of the excess cum dripping out of you, pushing it back inside your spasming cunt. "Hold this inside, ma petite. As a reminder.”
You shudder, feeling his finger enter your swollen cunt once more. You look down, watching as he makes sure not a drop is wasted.
“Rien, huh?” you ask, with a biting tone.
“Oui, rien.” (Yes, nothing.)
Imagine him looking like that when going down on you
YOURE LOSING ME. IM DYING.
Kinktober
Day 15: masturbating (pennywise)
– How delicious, my beauty…- he whispered in a horny voice. He still had his dick in his hand as he looked at me. – now enough teasing me, naughty girl – he said again, pointing his dick at me – give me a breast, will you?
I went straight towards him, knelt down and lifted my blouse until it was folded over my breasts and I left my breasts out so he could see my hard nipples. The man gave a wicked smile when he looked at my breasts and I responded to his look with a naughty look while I grabbed his dick with one hand. I looked into his eyes and started licking the head of his dick, then I started sucking that whole hot dick while feeling my own breasts, feeling the throbbing pulses of the dick in my mouth.
– So, my little whore… – whispered the man, at the same time as he moaned with my sucking – suck hard.
I was sucking his dick with such desire and speed that my mouth filled with saliva and I almost choked. When I took his dick out of my mouth, I coughed, drooled a lot of saliva and saw that his dick was throbbing and saliva was dripping from the head to the stalk. Then I went back to sucking him hard and at high speed.
– Wow, my beautiful… – he moaned. – you suck like a pro…
I took his dick out of my mouth, looked straight into his eyes, jerking off that drooling big dick.
The head of his dick passed my lips and slid over my tongue, into my mouth.
– That's right, my dear. Suck it good, go.
The smell, the taste… left my mouth watering and my pussy throbbing. I felt his dick pulsing, hot and hard as a rock in my mouth, and I suckled him, sucked him and felt him moving my head back and forth, taking it deeper and deeper.
– Calm down – he said. – Take it easy, my beauty.
He put his dick in my mouth again. I got rid of his hands so he would stop forcing a deep throat that I couldn't do at that time. I grabbed his dick with one hand, right at the base near the bag, and sucked the head of his dick like I was sucking on a popsicle while I was hitting him with my hand. I felt him moan and shiver.
– I’m going to cum, my beauty!! Aaahh…. – he groaned. – take it, my beauty, all my milk, take it!!
Me when monsters.
The only ship dynamic that 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚. 🖤
Monster X Human
vampire: My darling, my eternal flame, my heart's joy taken human form... you simply must drink water your blood tastes like shit.
