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My Trousers Rolled

It's from T.S. Eliot.

I'm from England.

PICTURES, WORDS, AND PERHAPS A LITTLE MUSIC. OFTEN D/S RELATED, SOMETIMES NOT.

MyTrousersRolled [at] Gmail [dot] com

OVER 18S ONLY.

Posts tagged panties:

If you’re a wet girl, someone who’s all too familiar with the phrase ‘sodden’, who feels a blush come to their cheeks as soon as they even become remotely aroused, because they know, without even feeling it, that that’s another pair of underwear they’re going to have to change as soon as possible, if you’re even the slightest bit ashamed, then I’d like you to do a little thought experiment for me. 
You know when you’re trying to get a guy turned on, or even if you’re not trying, and you notice that you have? You see that bulge in his jeans, and the way he keeps shifting in his seat, trying to adjust it without anyone actually seeing him adjust it. Or, better yet, when you can feel that hardness, run your hand against it through the denim, or the cotton, or whatever the fuck he’s wearing as a pair of trousers. Can you imagine that for me, for a moment?
Feels absolutely amazing, right? Feels like you’re the sexiest thing on the planet, the knowledge that you’re in his head right fucking now. That what he’s thinking about, this instant, is fucking you. That’s power, and it’s intoxicating. It’s arousing as all hell. It makes you feel like the best thing in the world, right?
When I know a girl is wet, that’s exactly how I feel. When I can put my hand between her legs, and bring it back shining in the light, I feel just about perfect. When I can see her shifting about, trying not to part those legs for an instant because she knows there’s a chance someone might notice, I could not be turned on more by any single thing. To be the cause of something so dramatic, a change so fundamental to the way someone is both thinking and feeling, is an incredible rush.
So don’t be ashamed, and don’t worry about it. Don’t wish that you were (god forbid) drier, that you didn’t start gushing the instant you started thinking about collars and leashes. Because then I wouldn’t be able to get that shine on my fingers so easily. And you wouldn’t be quite so blushy. 
And I absolutely adore blushy. 

If you’re a wet girl, someone who’s all too familiar with the phrase ‘sodden’, who feels a blush come to their cheeks as soon as they even become remotely aroused, because they know, without even feeling it, that that’s another pair of underwear they’re going to have to change as soon as possible, if you’re even the slightest bit ashamed, then I’d like you to do a little thought experiment for me. 

You know when you’re trying to get a guy turned on, or even if you’re not trying, and you notice that you have? You see that bulge in his jeans, and the way he keeps shifting in his seat, trying to adjust it without anyone actually seeing him adjust it. Or, better yet, when you can feel that hardness, run your hand against it through the denim, or the cotton, or whatever the fuck he’s wearing as a pair of trousers. Can you imagine that for me, for a moment?

Feels absolutely amazing, right? Feels like you’re the sexiest thing on the planet, the knowledge that you’re in his head right fucking now. That what he’s thinking about, this instant, is fucking you. That’s power, and it’s intoxicating. It’s arousing as all hell. It makes you feel like the best thing in the world, right?

When I know a girl is wet, that’s exactly how I feel. When I can put my hand between her legs, and bring it back shining in the light, I feel just about perfect. When I can see her shifting about, trying not to part those legs for an instant because she knows there’s a chance someone might notice, I could not be turned on more by any single thing. To be the cause of something so dramatic, a change so fundamental to the way someone is both thinking and feeling, is an incredible rush.

So don’t be ashamed, and don’t worry about it. Don’t wish that you were (god forbid) drier, that you didn’t start gushing the instant you started thinking about collars and leashes. Because then I wouldn’t be able to get that shine on my fingers so easily. And you wouldn’t be quite so blushy. 

And I absolutely adore blushy. 

(Source: -cream-and-sugar, via blackleatherbelt)

Her legs weren’t for walking. They’d stopped being capable of that a good hour ago, and from the way she crawled over to the chair, that was going to soon be beyond her too. He assumed she’d just start slithering across the floor, limbless like a snake, all strength seeped out of her under his hand, and against his cock. 
Exhaustion was something he’d been playing with in his mind, musing about in those idle moments in between. Waiting for a bus, on hold, during commercial breaks. He wanted to know how far she’d be able to go, where she’d break, and how she’d feel as it happened. He wanted to test her. He wanted to test himself. 
She propped herself up on the chair, a desperate hand clinging to the arm as she glanced over her shoulder at him. Wet hair hugged her face. It looked as exhausted as she did. The thought made him smile. 
"Four… hours." She panted out. He steadied himself against another chair. Somehow he managed to make it look casual. She’d started to shake.
"Getting a little tired, my dear?" His voice was all saccharine condescension, his chin tilting upwards so he looked at her down his nose. She’d never felt more the student. 
"How are you still standing?" It sounded like an accusation, and at any other time the tone would’ve got her punished. But she was all the way over there, and he was all the way over here. All in due time. He took a deep breath.
He didn’t answer her question, instead pushing himself off the chair and started to slowly wander over to her. She shook, his finger trailing down the curve of her arse, her underwear, as soaked as her hair with a delicious mixture of sweat and arousal, stuck to those supple cheeks. 
Even after all this time, after all those times, she still couldn’t help but bite her bottom lip, heavy lids slipping over her eyes and a shiver, entirely separate from her shakes and trembles, rushing down her spine. He just felt so ridiculously good. She wanted to stop him. She ached. Everywhere. But she still wanted more. 
"Say it." Nonchalant, that was the word.
"Please.." Her voice came out in a sob.
"Say. It." Steel flashed in his voice, and it was mirrored in his eyes. As always, holding his Dominance over her was giving him a second wind. Power was the great energiser.
"Pleeease…" It was a whine, now, but when she looked at him she saw now space, no inch given. Her eyes flicked down to the floor. She took a breath. "Take me." A cracked whisper.
"Again." She knew why. 
"Take me." Louder this time, but just as desperate, an exhausted sound, falling limply from her lips.
"Again." He didn’t even sound winded.
"Take. Me." It sounded like a threat. He smiled, a smile that was a grin, a grin that was full of teeth. 
"With pleasure."

Her legs weren’t for walking. They’d stopped being capable of that a good hour ago, and from the way she crawled over to the chair, that was going to soon be beyond her too. He assumed she’d just start slithering across the floor, limbless like a snake, all strength seeped out of her under his hand, and against his cock. 

Exhaustion was something he’d been playing with in his mind, musing about in those idle moments in between. Waiting for a bus, on hold, during commercial breaks. He wanted to know how far she’d be able to go, where she’d break, and how she’d feel as it happened. He wanted to test her. He wanted to test himself. 

She propped herself up on the chair, a desperate hand clinging to the arm as she glanced over her shoulder at him. Wet hair hugged her face. It looked as exhausted as she did. The thought made him smile. 

"Four… hours." She panted out. He steadied himself against another chair. Somehow he managed to make it look casual. She’d started to shake.

"Getting a little tired, my dear?" His voice was all saccharine condescension, his chin tilting upwards so he looked at her down his nose. She’d never felt more the student. 

"How are you still standing?" It sounded like an accusation, and at any other time the tone would’ve got her punished. But she was all the way over there, and he was all the way over here. All in due time. He took a deep breath.

He didn’t answer her question, instead pushing himself off the chair and started to slowly wander over to her. She shook, his finger trailing down the curve of her arse, her underwear, as soaked as her hair with a delicious mixture of sweat and arousal, stuck to those supple cheeks. 

Even after all this time, after all those times, she still couldn’t help but bite her bottom lip, heavy lids slipping over her eyes and a shiver, entirely separate from her shakes and trembles, rushing down her spine. He just felt so ridiculously good. She wanted to stop him. She ached. Everywhere. But she still wanted more. 

"Say it." Nonchalant, that was the word.

"Please.." Her voice came out in a sob.

"Say. It." Steel flashed in his voice, and it was mirrored in his eyes. As always, holding his Dominance over her was giving him a second wind. Power was the great energiser.

"Pleeease…" It was a whine, now, but when she looked at him she saw now space, no inch given. Her eyes flicked down to the floor. She took a breath. "Take me." A cracked whisper.

"Again." She knew why. 

"Take me." Louder this time, but just as desperate, an exhausted sound, falling limply from her lips.

"Again." He didn’t even sound winded.

"Take. Me." It sounded like a threat. He smiled, a smile that was a grin, a grin that was full of teeth. 

"With pleasure."

(Source: , via taraghmeni)

I have such cruelty in me. It would be so easy to break you, and leave you broken. A pathetic little thing, all used up. It really wouldn’t be so hard, the right application of pressure in just the right place, and you would crumple. Sometimes there’s a temptation, there, some ugly, dark surge of desire that flares for a moment, before slipping back into the darkness.
It’s the only thing that shakes my confidence in myself, those moments where I realise quite how much power I have, and quite how easily it could be abused. And, when that realisation hits, the temptation to see that happen, to push things to their most drastic and dramatic conclusion, hits too. That I never act on it does some good, but that it’s even there at all isn’t something that sits all that well with me.
I’ve learnt to temper it, somewhat. Cage up that darkness, and let it out in dribs and drabs, fuelling my sadism when I need it, and keeping it well away when you’re vulnerable. Sometimes you want the cruelty; I can see it in your eyes. You want to flirt with that darkness, see if you can seduce it like you seduced me. Dear girl, I’m afraid that part of me you can’t reason with. You can’t flirt with it, or placate it. It has a singular mind, and a singular purpose. You’re playing with fire, and the only reason you’re not being burnt is that I’m there keeping your hands from being thrust in the flames. 

I have such cruelty in me. It would be so easy to break you, and leave you broken. A pathetic little thing, all used up. It really wouldn’t be so hard, the right application of pressure in just the right place, and you would crumple. Sometimes there’s a temptation, there, some ugly, dark surge of desire that flares for a moment, before slipping back into the darkness.

It’s the only thing that shakes my confidence in myself, those moments where I realise quite how much power I have, and quite how easily it could be abused. And, when that realisation hits, the temptation to see that happen, to push things to their most drastic and dramatic conclusion, hits too. That I never act on it does some good, but that it’s even there at all isn’t something that sits all that well with me.

I’ve learnt to temper it, somewhat. Cage up that darkness, and let it out in dribs and drabs, fuelling my sadism when I need it, and keeping it well away when you’re vulnerable. Sometimes you want the cruelty; I can see it in your eyes. You want to flirt with that darkness, see if you can seduce it like you seduced me. Dear girl, I’m afraid that part of me you can’t reason with. You can’t flirt with it, or placate it. It has a singular mind, and a singular purpose. You’re playing with fire, and the only reason you’re not being burnt is that I’m there keeping your hands from being thrust in the flames. 

(Source: johnnyadidas, via makeithurtplease-deactivated201)

I wonder what is running through your mind when my hands treat you so dismissively. Whether you’ve just got a blank slate, a receptacle to receive the sensations slipping out of my fingertips and speeding up your spine to tell your brain all about how great this is all feeling. 
Or whether there’s something more going on. It would make sense that when I objectify you with an inspection, or just probing fingers, testing the firmness of your skin like the price ham at an auction, that your mind would react to that objectification more than anything else. Indeed, that’s where the objectification is taking place. And so does the thrill come out of being treated like that, or letting yourself think like that. To become the object. 
I imagine it could be reassuring. To switch off like that, and be only the item, the piece of property. To be fucked, and to be only for fucking. To not have to think so many thoughts, and instead merely react. But I also don’t think that’s you. I don’t think you have the capability in you, and more to the point I don’t think that’s what you want. I think you enjoy the captivity of thought that comes from that. 
Your mind is as active as ever, when I treat you so dismissively. It revels in the inability it has to assert its personhood, to scream that it is not an object, that it has feelings and thoughts and ideas. It thrives off the contradiction. That, at once, it is both the object and certainly not the object. 
Funny thing is, that’s what my brain is getting off on too. Just, y’know, from the other side of things. 

I wonder what is running through your mind when my hands treat you so dismissively. Whether you’ve just got a blank slate, a receptacle to receive the sensations slipping out of my fingertips and speeding up your spine to tell your brain all about how great this is all feeling. 

Or whether there’s something more going on. It would make sense that when I objectify you with an inspection, or just probing fingers, testing the firmness of your skin like the price ham at an auction, that your mind would react to that objectification more than anything else. Indeed, that’s where the objectification is taking place. And so does the thrill come out of being treated like that, or letting yourself think like that. To become the object. 

I imagine it could be reassuring. To switch off like that, and be only the item, the piece of property. To be fucked, and to be only for fucking. To not have to think so many thoughts, and instead merely react. But I also don’t think that’s you. I don’t think you have the capability in you, and more to the point I don’t think that’s what you want. I think you enjoy the captivity of thought that comes from that. 

Your mind is as active as ever, when I treat you so dismissively. It revels in the inability it has to assert its personhood, to scream that it is not an object, that it has feelings and thoughts and ideas. It thrives off the contradiction. That, at once, it is both the object and certainly not the object. 

Funny thing is, that’s what my brain is getting off on too. Just, y’know, from the other side of things. 

(Source: photo4u, via makeithurtplease-deactivated201)

The reprimand stung more than any blow would have. The sudden finger in her face cowed her, was almost confusing, the lack of any physical pain making it land all the harder. 
Her brow furrowed and she shook her head for a moment, before he even spoke a word. The finger was enough to let her know what she had done was wrong, that her refusal wasn’t something that was going to be expected. She knew she was being a brat, but she’d been expecting a quick spank, maybe a cuff around the ear.
"Keep that little mouth shut, before I gag it." His voice was clipped, the tone stern, and, if she hadn’t known him as well as she did, she might’ve said angry. But that finger, it emphasised each salient syllable with a wag, each one feeling like a spank on her exposed mind. 
But she did what she was told. She kept her mouth shut, even though she wanted a moan to slip past it. Instead it died on her tongue, the sound barely registering in the still air of the room. His other hand was between her legs, grabbing her underwear and pulling it down roughly, exposing those plump buttocks to the elements. 
She shifted, squirming, but that finger moved, and she was still. His hand was between her legs, running up against her, and again she wanted to moan, and again the moan died before pushing past her lips. His eyes were locked on hers, his movements driven by touch alone. Somehow that made it worse. The kind of worse that meant only good things. 
The finger wagged once more, a final warning, before another finger thrust, to the knuckle.

The reprimand stung more than any blow would have. The sudden finger in her face cowed her, was almost confusing, the lack of any physical pain making it land all the harder. 

Her brow furrowed and she shook her head for a moment, before he even spoke a word. The finger was enough to let her know what she had done was wrong, that her refusal wasn’t something that was going to be expected. She knew she was being a brat, but she’d been expecting a quick spank, maybe a cuff around the ear.

"Keep that little mouth shut, before I gag it." His voice was clipped, the tone stern, and, if she hadn’t known him as well as she did, she might’ve said angry. But that finger, it emphasised each salient syllable with a wag, each one feeling like a spank on her exposed mind. 

But she did what she was told. She kept her mouth shut, even though she wanted a moan to slip past it. Instead it died on her tongue, the sound barely registering in the still air of the room. His other hand was between her legs, grabbing her underwear and pulling it down roughly, exposing those plump buttocks to the elements. 

She shifted, squirming, but that finger moved, and she was still. His hand was between her legs, running up against her, and again she wanted to moan, and again the moan died before pushing past her lips. His eyes were locked on hers, his movements driven by touch alone. Somehow that made it worse. The kind of worse that meant only good things. 

The finger wagged once more, a final warning, before another finger thrust, to the knuckle.

(via slutred)

She was fascinating to him, a source of endless entertainment. The bits and pieces of her body were buttons he couldn’t help but press, a coveted object he that he had to fondle and pinch, know physically, just to make sure it was still there, still his. 
He was playful about it, taking her unaware with a violating finger, going where she really wasn’t expecting it right that second. He did it partly for the reaction, but also just because of the way the flesh depressed, how it succumbed to his finger, how it reacted. Because, surprising as it was, she always picked up on it quickly, her legs rising and pressing together, her head tilting back as she went from sudden gasp, to giggle, to wanton, unrepentant moan. 
She was a quick study. It was another thing that fascinated him.
It wasn’t just his fingers that did the prodding, either. Questions would fly at her out of the blue, filling in a little blank he’d just realised, an annoying blind spot that sat on his vision, constantly aware of it and yet unable to wipe it away, except with a probe, an innocently phrased query that made her splutter halfway through taking a drink, or look at him as if he’d asked her to strip down naked right that very second.
Not that that was all too uncommon itself, granted.

She was fascinating to him, a source of endless entertainment. The bits and pieces of her body were buttons he couldn’t help but press, a coveted object he that he had to fondle and pinch, know physically, just to make sure it was still there, still his. 

He was playful about it, taking her unaware with a violating finger, going where she really wasn’t expecting it right that second. He did it partly for the reaction, but also just because of the way the flesh depressed, how it succumbed to his finger, how it reacted. Because, surprising as it was, she always picked up on it quickly, her legs rising and pressing together, her head tilting back as she went from sudden gasp, to giggle, to wanton, unrepentant moan. 

She was a quick study. It was another thing that fascinated him.

It wasn’t just his fingers that did the prodding, either. Questions would fly at her out of the blue, filling in a little blank he’d just realised, an annoying blind spot that sat on his vision, constantly aware of it and yet unable to wipe it away, except with a probe, an innocently phrased query that made her splutter halfway through taking a drink, or look at him as if he’d asked her to strip down naked right that very second.

Not that that was all too uncommon itself, granted.

(via heliotropemist)

We’re going to adjust that attitude. And by we I mean me. And by me I mean I’m going to strip you down for parts, until it’s just the parts I want, and then I’ll build you up again, in the way that I want you. I will call you names. I will make you hurt. 
A breaking is a powerful thing. It has to happen, because otherwise there is nothing earnt, and without that earning, there is no value. I work on you, and, in turn, you work for me. 
It isn’t a question of willingness, and while a certain sass and reluctance, bad manners to be stripped away and replaced with good does have its place, and its own allure, you could be the most perfectly polite and well behaved girl in the world and I would still have to break you. I would still have to help you find that bottom so that you can truly know how low I can take you. 
Because I’m going to take you so very, very high, and without your feet firmly in the ground I’m afraid you’re going to choke on the stratosphere. 

We’re going to adjust that attitude. And by we I mean me. And by me I mean I’m going to strip you down for parts, until it’s just the parts I want, and then I’ll build you up again, in the way that I want you. I will call you names. I will make you hurt. 

A breaking is a powerful thing. It has to happen, because otherwise there is nothing earnt, and without that earning, there is no value. I work on you, and, in turn, you work for me. 

It isn’t a question of willingness, and while a certain sass and reluctance, bad manners to be stripped away and replaced with good does have its place, and its own allure, you could be the most perfectly polite and well behaved girl in the world and I would still have to break you. I would still have to help you find that bottom so that you can truly know how low I can take you. 

Because I’m going to take you so very, very high, and without your feet firmly in the ground I’m afraid you’re going to choke on the stratosphere. 

(Source: reumrs, via rolloloves-deactivated20120909)

There was a soft rustle as the lace tied behind her wrists, locking her hands into place. A finishing touch, right at the beginning. She thought about mentioning this to him, but there was a steel in his eyes that brokered no space for humour. And so she remained quiet.
His hands strayed down from her bound wrists to her exposed rear, and gave her a reassuring squeeze. Then that was it. No more contact, the impression of his hand lingering on her nerves for a few moments, but then he was gone, a few steps behind her, just watching. She frowned, turned, and he shook his head. A finger did a slow pirouette in the air, and she huffed, facing the wall again.

"What…" His tut rang out clear in the air, cutting her off before she’d even begun. The bindings at her wrists were feeling less erotic and more frustrating now, her hands wanting to move and fidget, and yet all she could do was have them clasp one another, the most unsatisfying of movements. 
They stood there like that for moments, minutes, hours. Too long, in her mind. Too long before his hand eventually wandered back out, around her stomach, then  up and against her chest, his fingers rough and to the point. When he spoke he didn’t sound as breathy as he normally did, his husk nothing out of the ordinary.
"What have you learnt?" It wasn’t rhetorical. More’s the pity.
"Umm.." She stalled. She didn’t stall well.
His hand came down hard on her chest, hard fingers against soft breast.
"Try again." A reprimand.
"Patience?" It was a guess. Informed, but still far from confident.
"No, beautiful. I think patience is one virtue you’re never going to quite master." He paused, and there was that almost imperceptible slick note that let her know he was smiling. "You’ve learnt that you don’t initiate. That you remain still, and quiet, and receptive, until I make the first move."
Silence hung in the air, filled with unspoken words. He picked a few.
"Well, at least that’s what you will have learnt, once I etch it into your skull." His other hand had found its way between her legs. It was rubbing.
"And exactly how I do the etching, well…" The fingers pushed a little hard, just as his fingers came down on her breast again. "There are a few ways we can do that."

There was a soft rustle as the lace tied behind her wrists, locking her hands into place. A finishing touch, right at the beginning. She thought about mentioning this to him, but there was a steel in his eyes that brokered no space for humour. And so she remained quiet.

His hands strayed down from her bound wrists to her exposed rear, and gave her a reassuring squeeze. Then that was it. No more contact, the impression of his hand lingering on her nerves for a few moments, but then he was gone, a few steps behind her, just watching. She frowned, turned, and he shook his head. A finger did a slow pirouette in the air, and she huffed, facing the wall again.

"What…" His tut rang out clear in the air, cutting her off before she’d even begun. The bindings at her wrists were feeling less erotic and more frustrating now, her hands wanting to move and fidget, and yet all she could do was have them clasp one another, the most unsatisfying of movements. 

They stood there like that for moments, minutes, hours. Too long, in her mind. Too long before his hand eventually wandered back out, around her stomach, then  up and against her chest, his fingers rough and to the point. When he spoke he didn’t sound as breathy as he normally did, his husk nothing out of the ordinary.

"What have you learnt?" It wasn’t rhetorical. More’s the pity.

"Umm.." She stalled. She didn’t stall well.

His hand came down hard on her chest, hard fingers against soft breast.

"Try again." A reprimand.

"Patience?" It was a guess. Informed, but still far from confident.

"No, beautiful. I think patience is one virtue you’re never going to quite master." He paused, and there was that almost imperceptible slick note that let her know he was smiling. "You’ve learnt that you don’t initiate. That you remain still, and quiet, and receptive, until I make the first move."

Silence hung in the air, filled with unspoken words. He picked a few.

"Well, at least that’s what you will have learnt, once I etch it into your skull." His other hand had found its way between her legs. It was rubbing.

"And exactly how I do the etching, well…" The fingers pushed a little hard, just as his fingers came down on her breast again. "There are a few ways we can do that."

(via thinkivykink)

You won’t make it to the bed. Your legs will give way, muscles trembling and exhausted, and you’ll fall before you find the sweet release of your sheets. Your mind will be a mess of frayed nerve endings, misfiring synapses and an overworked mind. Your body will just be a mess. 

This is no mean feat, between us. It is not something that you can dip your toe into, something that can be half arsed. This is not something that will take a little of you, some of you, or even most of you. I ask for all, every last drop of your self, to be poured out for me to savour and enjoy. If you hold anything back, I will draw it out of you by any means necessary. I won’t be satisfied until you are done. Finito. 

So you won’t make it to the bed. Your legs will give way, because I took the last of their strength. Your mind will misfire, your brain shutting down, because I overloaded it. I flooded it with sensation, images, ideas, and power. I stripped it down for parts, and then re-assembled it into something more. Your body won’t make it because, well, that’s between me and your body. 

Needless to say it is more than satisfied.

(Source: theguccislut)

I could highlight the femininity of this picture, explain how it stirs something untoward inside me, brings urges bubbling to the fore about how I might like to defile, corrupt, soil, and taint something so wonderfully pleasant and cute. 
I could focus on that cheeky little buttock, peaking out from beside the (frankly scandalous) underwear, and draw attention to the fact that perhaps it’s not so unintentional, and perhaps she’s rather happy that you’re getting a good old eyeful, you perv. 
I could trace the line of that slender, fragile neck with my eyes, describe its elegance, perhaps spend a moment musing over those dimples in her shoulder blades, before moving onto those ballet boots. But I’ve talked about ballet before. 
I could do these things, but I’m not going to, because this picture has been sitting in my drafts for days and nothing seems quite good enough, because none of them feel true. They’re things I can see, perspectives I can adopt, but really, the reason I threw this picture on the pile is just… 
Well, just look at it. Why wouldn’t you want to throw that on the pile? Or the bed?

I could highlight the femininity of this picture, explain how it stirs something untoward inside me, brings urges bubbling to the fore about how I might like to defile, corrupt, soil, and taint something so wonderfully pleasant and cute. 

I could focus on that cheeky little buttock, peaking out from beside the (frankly scandalous) underwear, and draw attention to the fact that perhaps it’s not so unintentional, and perhaps she’s rather happy that you’re getting a good old eyeful, you perv. 

I could trace the line of that slender, fragile neck with my eyes, describe its elegance, perhaps spend a moment musing over those dimples in her shoulder blades, before moving onto those ballet boots. But I’ve talked about ballet before. 

I could do these things, but I’m not going to, because this picture has been sitting in my drafts for days and nothing seems quite good enough, because none of them feel true. They’re things I can see, perspectives I can adopt, but really, the reason I threw this picture on the pile is just… 

Well, just look at it. Why wouldn’t you want to throw that on the pile? Or the bed?

(Source: femaleboner, via submissiveconfessions-deactivat)

She was up before him. Teeth, shower, breakfast. She’d made tea them both, and shoved two slices of bread into the toaster. The buzz of the timer pushed against her head in the most infuriating way. She regretted the glass of wine the night before. Glasses. 
The toaster pinged. The toast came out. Butter, knife, spread. She was halfway through the second when the hand settled on her shoulder. Lips against her ear. Stubble against her neck.
"I woke up hard. You’re going to deal with it." His voice purred, a big game purr, bass and threat. Her eyes flashed wide.
She swallowed and cleared her throat, the knife slipping out of her hand, forgotten.
"Umm." Another swallow. "How do you.." She didn’t find the end of the question, his hand at her shoulder pulling her around, the other hand slipping under the curve of her rear and lifting her up onto the counter. Her voice just trailed off into an ‘oh’, all sleepy, all surprise.
The hand at her rear found her underwear, pulled it down at away, bunched around her knees. The aggression and speed with which he was stripping her sent electric jolts through her spine, had her brain swimming in a sea of sudden, unexpected lust. Eyes lidded, lashes fluttered, and one hand came up to press against her mouth.
"Wait.." She murmured, although she wasn’t sure why. It didn’t matter, though, because he ignored her, pyjamas falling around his ankles as he guided himself to her, that wide head flaring her open, another ‘oh’ falling from her lips. Then a moan. Then a gasp.
Sunlight flooded the room. Raw, base need flooded her.

She was up before him. Teeth, shower, breakfast. She’d made tea them both, and shoved two slices of bread into the toaster. The buzz of the timer pushed against her head in the most infuriating way. She regretted the glass of wine the night before. Glasses. 

The toaster pinged. The toast came out. Butter, knife, spread. She was halfway through the second when the hand settled on her shoulder. Lips against her ear. Stubble against her neck.

"I woke up hard. You’re going to deal with it." His voice purred, a big game purr, bass and threat. Her eyes flashed wide.

She swallowed and cleared her throat, the knife slipping out of her hand, forgotten.

"Umm." Another swallow. "How do you.." She didn’t find the end of the question, his hand at her shoulder pulling her around, the other hand slipping under the curve of her rear and lifting her up onto the counter. Her voice just trailed off into an ‘oh’, all sleepy, all surprise.

The hand at her rear found her underwear, pulled it down at away, bunched around her knees. The aggression and speed with which he was stripping her sent electric jolts through her spine, had her brain swimming in a sea of sudden, unexpected lust. Eyes lidded, lashes fluttered, and one hand came up to press against her mouth.

"Wait.." She murmured, although she wasn’t sure why. It didn’t matter, though, because he ignored her, pyjamas falling around his ankles as he guided himself to her, that wide head flaring her open, another ‘oh’ falling from her lips. Then a moan. Then a gasp.

Sunlight flooded the room. Raw, base need flooded her.

(Source: , via rolloloves-deactivated20120909)

She played coy, even now, when she was just in her underwear and there was very little left of her for him to see. Still she dropped her eyes in a demure fashion, and she covered her chest with a free arm. The other, of course, went to her mouth so she could play her thumb over her lips. She knew he had a thing about girls who sucked their thumbs. 
She didn’t know which of them was more fucked up about that one. Him for liking it, or her for indulging it. Either way, they were fucked up together. That thought caused a little moan to push past her lips. 
He shifted in his chair. She could see the clear outline of him against the suit trousers he’d worn. It was almost enough to make her drop her arm and lose the underwear, and just straddle him.
Almost.
She dropped her eyes again, and slowly looked up. Underneath her eyelashes, he was just a vague outline, a delicious silhouette that regarded her with a predatory attraction, his eyes stripping her down far more efficiently than she had, just moments ago. The dress, the socks, they were cast about her like wrapping paper at Christmas. She smirked.
"You’ve got three seconds." He murmured. Somehow, despite the low rumble of his voice, his clear cut accent made the words entirely intelligible. Which only made it worse. 
"Until?" She ventured, just a trace of smarm in her voice.
"Until nothing. You’ve got three seconds to get on my lap." He leant back, his arms moving to rest on the sides of the chair. Her eyes narrowed, trying to figure out if this was a test.
"Three." The murmur turned into a command, the number somehow compelling her to start moving. She took a step and then paused. Still eyes narrowed, still trying to figure him out.
"Two." This one was a warning, fired wide, but enough to let her know he wasn’t messing around. Eyes, once narrowed, flared wide, and she surged forward to close the few feet between them. 
"One." She might have dived, had she not had half a second to spare. As it was, she all but fell into his lap, her pert little rear landing on the tops of his thighs, and her legs curling up over the arm of the chair. That thumb was still at her mouth, and the edges of her eyes crinkled as she grinned.
"Three seconds until?" She mumbled, the thumb cutting out the edges of her words. 
"This." His hand came up, and he turned her over onto her stomach, her bum up in the air. 
She had just enough time to squeal before his hand came down.

She played coy, even now, when she was just in her underwear and there was very little left of her for him to see. Still she dropped her eyes in a demure fashion, and she covered her chest with a free arm. The other, of course, went to her mouth so she could play her thumb over her lips. She knew he had a thing about girls who sucked their thumbs. 

She didn’t know which of them was more fucked up about that one. Him for liking it, or her for indulging it. Either way, they were fucked up together. That thought caused a little moan to push past her lips. 

He shifted in his chair. She could see the clear outline of him against the suit trousers he’d worn. It was almost enough to make her drop her arm and lose the underwear, and just straddle him.

Almost.

She dropped her eyes again, and slowly looked up. Underneath her eyelashes, he was just a vague outline, a delicious silhouette that regarded her with a predatory attraction, his eyes stripping her down far more efficiently than she had, just moments ago. The dress, the socks, they were cast about her like wrapping paper at Christmas. She smirked.

"You’ve got three seconds." He murmured. Somehow, despite the low rumble of his voice, his clear cut accent made the words entirely intelligible. Which only made it worse. 

"Until?" She ventured, just a trace of smarm in her voice.

"Until nothing. You’ve got three seconds to get on my lap." He leant back, his arms moving to rest on the sides of the chair. Her eyes narrowed, trying to figure out if this was a test.

"Three." The murmur turned into a command, the number somehow compelling her to start moving. She took a step and then paused. Still eyes narrowed, still trying to figure him out.

"Two." This one was a warning, fired wide, but enough to let her know he wasn’t messing around. Eyes, once narrowed, flared wide, and she surged forward to close the few feet between them. 

"One." She might have dived, had she not had half a second to spare. As it was, she all but fell into his lap, her pert little rear landing on the tops of his thighs, and her legs curling up over the arm of the chair. That thumb was still at her mouth, and the edges of her eyes crinkled as she grinned.

"Three seconds until?" She mumbled, the thumb cutting out the edges of her words. 

"This." His hand came up, and he turned her over onto her stomach, her bum up in the air. 

She had just enough time to squeal before his hand came down.

(Source: ageplay, via kitty-en-classe)

Linger your gaze on that rear for a moment, if you will.
Do you see those lines? There’s two of them, twin diagonals mirroring one another. Notice how they seem almost like tyre treads of some miniature truck, and notice how that pattern correlates to the pattern on the underside of the underwear? Now, my dear Mr. Watson, what do you think that means?
Well, I’ll tell you. I always have to tell you, Watson.
It means one of two things. Firstly, it could just mean that the underwear is a few sizes too small, and, by wearing it for a prolonged amount of time, she’s developed those indents in her skin. Of course, the mind wanders to the front, and wonders exactly what kind of outline it might show, how much it might give away. You wonder if the lips are plump or exposed, and, more importantly, whether you would be able to tell. The mind wanders…
Or, and this is probably my personal favourite, it means that pressure has been applied from the front, pulled from the waistband, either to get her to somewhere or just for the hell of it, to lift her onto her tip toes so that she is almost entirely supported by that fabric, feeling that lining digging into the round cheeks of her arse, knowing that the instant those plain white cottons come off, everyone is going to know what’s been going on. 
Then there’s the rest, which is far too fun to bother analysing and explaining. Just enjoy the view.

Linger your gaze on that rear for a moment, if you will.

Do you see those lines? There’s two of them, twin diagonals mirroring one another. Notice how they seem almost like tyre treads of some miniature truck, and notice how that pattern correlates to the pattern on the underside of the underwear? Now, my dear Mr. Watson, what do you think that means?

Well, I’ll tell you. I always have to tell you, Watson.

It means one of two things. Firstly, it could just mean that the underwear is a few sizes too small, and, by wearing it for a prolonged amount of time, she’s developed those indents in her skin. Of course, the mind wanders to the front, and wonders exactly what kind of outline it might show, how much it might give away. You wonder if the lips are plump or exposed, and, more importantly, whether you would be able to tell. The mind wanders…

Or, and this is probably my personal favourite, it means that pressure has been applied from the front, pulled from the waistband, either to get her to somewhere or just for the hell of it, to lift her onto her tip toes so that she is almost entirely supported by that fabric, feeling that lining digging into the round cheeks of her arse, knowing that the instant those plain white cottons come off, everyone is going to know what’s been going on. 

Then there’s the rest, which is far too fun to bother analysing and explaining. Just enjoy the view.

(Source: , via rolloloves-deactivated20120909)

If a woman’s body is a work of art, then her underwear is the frame, the piece that embellishes or deliberately doesn’t embellish, to avoid distracting, the piece that already exists. 
Some body’s work well with that kind of stark, simple outline, the white cottons, that are merely there, something functional but nothing that will catch the eye, because the rest is doing that job so, so well. I can’t help but feel that there’s a little lack of originality with that, though, a certain rigid minimalism. 
A good frame is a work of art in its own right. Good lingerie, that fits and works with you, can enhance and attract, regardless of quite how delectable your hip bones are, or how unspeakably adorable those dimples at the base of your spine manage to be. They’re something to distract, because there’s time for distraction, time to linger on the frills, and the lace, and quite how skimpy it all is. 
Your ensemble makes you become an ensemble, what you wear working with you, because no one’s eyes wander over the back of a thong and don’t appreciate the bum consuming that little slither of fabric at the same time. No bra is attractive without your chest heaving within it. Stockings without legs? Forgeddaboudit. 
So think about the way you frame yourself, now and then. Realise that it’s as much about the piece as it is about you. And it is about you, because what’s a frame without something to put in it? An empty, hollow definition, that’s what.

If a woman’s body is a work of art, then her underwear is the frame, the piece that embellishes or deliberately doesn’t embellish, to avoid distracting, the piece that already exists. 

Some body’s work well with that kind of stark, simple outline, the white cottons, that are merely there, something functional but nothing that will catch the eye, because the rest is doing that job so, so well. I can’t help but feel that there’s a little lack of originality with that, though, a certain rigid minimalism. 

A good frame is a work of art in its own right. Good lingerie, that fits and works with you, can enhance and attract, regardless of quite how delectable your hip bones are, or how unspeakably adorable those dimples at the base of your spine manage to be. They’re something to distract, because there’s time for distraction, time to linger on the frills, and the lace, and quite how skimpy it all is. 

Your ensemble makes you become an ensemble, what you wear working with you, because no one’s eyes wander over the back of a thong and don’t appreciate the bum consuming that little slither of fabric at the same time. No bra is attractive without your chest heaving within it. Stockings without legs? Forgeddaboudit. 

So think about the way you frame yourself, now and then. Realise that it’s as much about the piece as it is about you. And it is about you, because what’s a frame without something to put in it? An empty, hollow definition, that’s what.

(Source: femaleboner, via crimson-and-bare)

The more adorable you are, the more you turn me on. The smaller you seem, the more you retreat into yourself, the more it makes me hard. Where I should feel pity and the need to comfort you, wrap my arms around you and make you safe, I just want to touch you, grope you, and devour you. 
That’s not to say those feelings of protectiveness and an almost paternal urge aren’t there, it’s just, well, they’re background noise in that moment, when your voice gets small and your head dips down. They’re just so much periphery that I don’t really need to pay attention to because I want you and I want you right here and right now. 
And the same thing happens when you dress that way, too, when your hair slips into pigtails and you wear something cute and girly, and not really all that sexual, somehow it tickles just that part of my brain, and I want to do unspeakable things to you. But I wills peak them, because I want to see the blush on your cheeks. That makes me swell, too. 
Part of me thinks you do it because you know the reaction it causes. Part of me thinks that you would do it anyway, because that’s just your nature. Part of me really doesn’t care, because you do do it, and you do it so fucking well. 
Just don’t stop. Ever.

The more adorable you are, the more you turn me on. The smaller you seem, the more you retreat into yourself, the more it makes me hard. Where I should feel pity and the need to comfort you, wrap my arms around you and make you safe, I just want to touch you, grope you, and devour you. 

That’s not to say those feelings of protectiveness and an almost paternal urge aren’t there, it’s just, well, they’re background noise in that moment, when your voice gets small and your head dips down. They’re just so much periphery that I don’t really need to pay attention to because I want you and I want you right here and right now. 

And the same thing happens when you dress that way, too, when your hair slips into pigtails and you wear something cute and girly, and not really all that sexual, somehow it tickles just that part of my brain, and I want to do unspeakable things to you. But I wills peak them, because I want to see the blush on your cheeks. That makes me swell, too. 

Part of me thinks you do it because you know the reaction it causes. Part of me thinks that you would do it anyway, because that’s just your nature. Part of me really doesn’t care, because you do do it, and you do it so fucking well. 

Just don’t stop. Ever.

(via lovelyandporcelain)

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