Category: sexual fetish

Shrinking Little Dan

Valerie 1844-332-2639 Ext 243

Poor little Dan has a condition. We aren’t really sure why it’s happening to him, but he is shrinking. Little by little. When I moved in next door, he was a sexy man with flecks of gray at his temples who stood just over six foot two. But then one day, he just started getting smaller and smaller. He’s gotten so small, his Mommy, I mean, wife, has asked me to babysit him while she goes to work. Dan has become too small to care for himself. He can’t reach the potty and has been forced into wearing diapers now that he is only two feet tall.

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Julie 1-844-332-2639 Ext 453

“Julie, I have a kinky fetish. I like to cum in my jeans in public.” He confessed for the first time. He said it all started when he was a young, horny boy. He would sit in class and watch the girls. He would try to see their budding little nipples through their shirts, and up their little skirts. Inevitably he would cum in his pants. Then a few years later, he had a girlfriend that would sit next to him in class and rub him through his pants until he would cum. He told me that he hasn’t been able to overcome this fetish. After all of these years, he still craves it. But he hasn’t found anyone that was into it or willing to help him fulfill his fantasy. He asked me if I could help him. It sounded so hot to me. My pussy was wet just thinking about it. I told him that I would absolutely love to. So we made reservations at a popular upscale restaurant. I requested a specific booth that is up on a step and overlooking the entire dining room. After all, I wanted him to be the center of attention.

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lover

Anna 844-332-2639 EXT. 203

Mommy Anna was making a special effort to find any excuse to spank Ronnie, but it seemed the more she tried, the more he behaved. He was doing everything he could to evade a spanking.

Every night, when Daddy Ron would work night shift, Mommy Anna would call up her lover and he would beg her to tell him stories of how she spanked Ronnie and his little sister. The two of them would get off on talking about spankings on the phone and whisper sweet spanking nothings into each other’s ears.

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fucking

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

The first man I truly “noticed” was Mr. Harrow, the 58‑year‑old owner of the corner bakery. I would watch him knead dough with a rhythm that reminded me of a heartbeat, with his forehead creasing in concentration and his eyes flickering over the pastries as if he were measuring the stories they could tell.

I didn’t understand at the time, but the way he laughed made me feel that I was in the presence of someone who could teach me a few things. My infatuation grew, not in the shallow way of a teen crush, but more like a slow, deliberate ache. I started to linger at the bakery after school, pretending to need a croissant while really just wanting to hear the soft rustle of his cardigan as he moved. I’d catch his eye, and for a heartbeat he’d smile.

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fantasy roleplay

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

There was a time when I spent my mornings sipping coffee on the pier while the rope‑clad sailors shouted orders and hauled nets. Every time a burly deckhand looked in my direction, I felt a flutter in my already dripping wet pussy. I began to wonder whether I was simply attracted to the smell of tar and brine or to the swagger that comes with a life spent battling waves.

One breezy afternoon I decided to test my theory. I slipped into a striped nautical tee (my version of a sailor’s uniform, though I lacked the appropriate boots) and strutted down to the pier, pretending I could read the tide charts. Almost instantly, I caught the eye of one young seafarer, a lanky fellow with a tattoo of an anchor on his bicep, pretending to mend a net. I tipped my hat and said, “Mind if I borrow a rope? I’m feeling a little tangled up in my own fantasies.” He chuckled and offered me a spare coil. His fingers brushed my palm in a way that felt like a secret handshake between the tides and my imagination.

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cheater

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

Today is February 13th. The eve of the great lie. And that, my darlings, is why you must spoil me. First, the obvious. Spoil me to prove you can. The florist delivers on Valentine’s Day. The cliché. But a bouquet of black calla lilies arriving today, a day early, at my door, not hers? That’s a secret. That’s power. It whispers, “I am thinking of you while I am picking out the safe, red roses for my boring wife.”

Spoil me for the silence I keep. Your wife asks how your day was and you say, “Fine. I had a long budget meeting.” You weren’t in a meeting. You were here, with the curtains drawn, tasting the expensive caviar you told her you were saving for a “special occasion with the guys.” I am the living, breathing secret you tuck into your suit pocket. Simply put, I don’t call. I don’t text at inopportune times, either. My discretion is an art form and good art is never cheap.

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Boy

Anna 844-332-2639 EXT. 203

Miss Anna was walking home from the bodega with her arms full of bags. She balanced herself well in her heels still strutting down the sidewalk. Just as she almost reached home, one of her bags ripped, and her items spilled all onto the concrete.

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findom

Cory 1-877-332-2639 ext 407

I’m a woman with a penchant for Prada and a talent for turning pitiful, low-status men into personal ATMs. My specialty? Convincing pathetic loser betas to drain their meager savings so I can buy another designer handbag or book a spontaneous trip to Bali. It’s not just about the money, though. It’s about power. The sweet, syrupy kind that comes when a man with a Netflix-and-chill résumé hands me his Black Card like it’s a sacred offering.

The process is almost artful. I spot them before the see me. Shiftless guys in ill-fitting suits, with confidence levels lower than the tips some of you leave at brunch. I approach with a smile that could thaw the Arctic and a voice that purrs like a V8 engine. Then I start complimenting their “untapped potential,” pretending to be “starving artist” or “aspiring entrepreneur” (code for “I need money but also validation”). By the third round of $25 drinks, they’re confessing their deepest insecurities while I nonchalantly swipe their credit card for a “gift” that costs $300. As far as I’m concerned, it’s an investment in my affections.

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slut

Stella 1-844-332-2639 ext 322

His name is Mark. He is tall, dark‑haired, and he wears a suit that looks like it was made for him. I felt a strange heat in my chest when I saw him. I told myself it was just nerves because I really needed the merger to go through.

We sat across a long table. Papers were spread out, charts on the screen, coffee steaming in the corners. I asked about his company’s goals. He answered with a calm voice that made my thoughts drift. I could see his eyes flicker to my lips when I spoke.

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abdl humil

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

Melanie handed me the mug. “He’s yours for a while,” she whispered. “Then it’s my turn.” Ethan didn’t suspect a thing. He’d been grinning all night at the party upstairs, leering at us like we were prizes. By 10:47pm, I made sure he’d downed three drinks, all of which contained chamomile and a splash of something far more calm-inducing. He slumped against the couch shortly after he finished the third drink. What a dummy. He should have known not to accept a drink from a near-stranger.

“Let’s move him,” I said. Melanie smirked. “I bet he never suspected this would happen when he chose to go to the party.” We carried him down like a ragdoll. His protests dissolved into snores by the third step. The diaper we put him in was size XXL, which was a mocking fit for his bulky frame. Melanie held him still while I snapped the tabs. Ethan twitched once, as if he was dreaming of escape. If only he knew. lol I reached for the laxative, sweetened to taste like vanilla. He gulped it down in a bottle, oblivious to his current reality.

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