Christmas

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Santa’s workshop buzzed with the manic energy of Christmas. While other elves dangled dolls and wind-up trains from the ceiling like we were in a Christmas ornament factory, my job as Quality Control Manager was to test the sexy toys that would be left for adults under trees all over the world this year.

Today’s project involved Aaron, a twitchy new elf whose enthusiasm could’ve powered the North Pole’s entire workshop. He’d just unveiled his “ethically sourced” antler cock ring. “Structural integrity is paramount,” he’d said, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. “Let’s test it,” I said professionally, while adjusting my candy-cane apron. Elf Academy didn’t cover this part in their “Sleighing the Holidays” curriculum, so it was my responsibility to train new hires on protocol.

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nipple

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My best friend thinks my Friday nights are a delightful mix of artisanal cheese, documentaries, and early bedtimes. Oh, if only she knew the reality of what I get up to with her brother, Liam! Our secret, kinky rendezvous are the spice of my existence, and the highlight is always the grand reveal of my ever-growing collection of nipple clamps.

Tonight was a Christmas affair, naturally. Liam, bless his unsuspecting sister’s heart, strode into my apartment looking impossibly handsome, with a casual smirk already playing on his lips. He knew the drill. We naturally skipped the small talk, the Netflix suggestions, and the pretense of anything remotely platonic. His eyes immediately darted to the small velvet pouch I held in my hand.

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spanking

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We were in the artisanal coffee shop downtown. Michael was staring intensely at a pastry tower, when his lower lip starting to tremble. “No, Michael,” I whispered, grabbing his arm so tightly I risked interrupting his circulatory system. “We are having a pleasant afternoon. We agreed on no more sweets because they make you too hyper.”

He didn’t listen. Instead, he decided to stomp and scream as he always does whenever he doesn’t get his own way. Especially when we’re surrounded by people who might judge my parenting skills—or lack thereof. And then, like clockwork, he did it. There was a faint, yet unmistakable, shhhht sound, followed by the specific, horrible squish that only a fully saturated, cotton adult diaper can produce.

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pantyhose

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I have a serious thing for pantyhose. Not just an ‘Oh, these look nice with my skirt’ kind of thing. More like ‘If I could wallpaper my apartment with nude sheers, I absolutely would’ kind of thing. It’s an obsession, a fixation, a silky, glorious addiction. It started innocently enough. I had a preference for smooth legs under dresses. But then it escalated.

Now, the mere sight of a freshly opened packet of control tops sends a little shiver down my spine. The satisfying rustle as I pull them up, the way they hug every curve, the subtle sheen catching the light…it’s pure, unadulterated joy. I have an entire chest of drawers dedicated to my collection. Fishnets, opaques, sheers, shinies, matte, reinforced toe, open toe…you name it, I’ve got it, probably in three different colors.

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pampers

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Mark is the kind of guy who, when stressed or overly excited (or even when he’s just plain distracted), will forget that he’s potty trained. It happens more than he would ever care to admit, but that’s okay because I always have a stash of clean diapers in my purse. There are always signs when it happens. His face gets red, his voice gets high, and I watch as his shoulders stiffen in that precise way that signals impending doom.

“Oh, honey,” I murmur, grabbing his wrist. “Let’s just go find the nearest bathroom.” There’s really no point in dwelling on it. He’s usually embarrassed enough as it is. The comedy of our lives is rooted in logistics. We cram into the stall. Mark looks genuinely miserable, leaning against the cold tile. “I am so sorry,” he always whispers, mortified.

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feet

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I pressed my soles into the damp earth, watching the rich, dark mud squelching between my toes, as I coated them in a thick, satisfying film. Daddy liked it when I committed, so I deliberately sought out the wettest patches and the places where fallen leaves were decaying into a rich, dark compost.

The mud was cool, but quickly warmed from my body heat. It slithered up my ankles, caking my arches, filling the spaces between my toes. I wiggled them, feeling the grittiness as the earthy smell rose to meet me. Perfect. When I finally padded back into the living room, leaving a trail of brown smudges on the polished wood, Daddy was waiting. He was in his usual armchair, a book open on his lap.

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cock sucking

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I’m a woman of simple, yet incredibly specific, pleasures. While some chase after fancy dinners or the latest gossip, my eyes are always scanning for one thing: a beautiful, thick BBC to wrap my soft, glossy lips around. It’s a craving, a delightful obsession, and frankly, my favorite way to unwind.

Recently, I met his guy. I spotted him across the room, as he was leaning against the bar with an easy smile playing on his lips. He was tall with broad shoulders and had that unmistakable “big dick energy” that always makes me feral. My radar went wild. There was a certain confidence in his stance, a lazy power that promised a delightful experience. My heart did a little flutter-kick. I had to have him!

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succubus

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My Succubus costume was cheap red vinyl and was slutty enough that I felt the wind lift the hem with every step. I’d spent an hour applying black as night liquid eyeliner and slicking on the perfect shade of red lip gloss that tasted like artificial cherry and bad decisions. I wanted every eye on me. The kind of attention that made lesser girls blush, the kind that promised chaos.

I moved through the crush of masked students like I owned the ground, thriving on the whistles and the lingering stares. Every glance felt like a currency, and I was rolling in it. That’s when I saw him. He was standing alone, leaning against the wrought-iron fence of an old, unused cemetery that bordered the sidewalk—a classic mistake, I realized later.

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ghost sex

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As soon as I finished uttering the words of my spell, the shadows in the corners of my basement didn’t just deepen; they coalesced. A figure rose from the center of the pentagram. He was transparent, tall and lean. He wasn’t monstrous, but terrifyingly perfect; his form was defined by the absence of light with eyes like distant, hungry stars. I was instantly mesmerized. “You called,” his voice hissed, a static whisper that vibrated in my teeth. “What payment do you offer, little witch?”

My breath hitched. I felt a cold knot in my stomach, but the heat of reckless desire was raging in my desperate pussy. I had aimed high; summoning not a man but a ghost from the Underworld, a creature whose touch could corrupt or worse. But still, I had to have him.

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********* blog

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My current curiosity belonged to Elias. He was the perfect, arrogant prince of his small, modern kingdom. A penthouse suite protected by layers of steel and, most deliciously, a web of high-definition security cameras. He was a man who believed in control, which meant he feared observation most of all.

I was the only one who truly saw the fissures in his flawless exterior, the things he typed only when he thought the Wi-Fi was off, the desires he locked away when the moon turned cold. This information was my leverage, far more potent than any rotten apple or ill-gotten jewel. I knew what I wanted and would stop at nothing to get it.

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