Who Do I Gotta Find And/or Pay For Someone, Anyone, To Physically Turn My Flesh Suit Of A Body Into A

Just want it on the record if anyone calls me "my pretty girl " while fingering me I am not liable for their fingers getting dislocated from how tightly I will clench around them

Reblog if you’re a transfem who is shy and you fear abandonment, even when you know that your friends are amazing and would never leave you.

Or if you like pizza.

what if this thing was a goddess?

still a submissive goddess, but before you could taste its divinity, you had to prove your devotion first?

you make your prayers, asking for its attention. you learn its ways, showing it your commitment. you make your sacrifices, pleasing it with your faith. you spend your time in worship, turning its gaze to yours. you perform its rituals, invoking its divinity in your life.

when this goddess accepts you as worthy of its gifts, you're invited into its inner chambers, its hallowed halls, its high heavens.

you recieve the blessings only it can deliver. it serves you as only a goddess can, turning its power to support you where your goals and its divinity aligns. as its most devoted worshipper, you're invited to explore its holy body, to feel its curves, to enjoy its holes, to know its heart, to learn its reactions to pain.

once you're held in its embrace, there's still a remaining question: will you remain a faithful devotee, or begin to twist your goddess and corrupt it into something else?

“kill them with kindness” WRONG! nether dimension

⬛ ⬛ ⬛ ⬛

⬛ 🟪 🟪 ⬛

⬛ 🟪 🟪 ⬛

⬛ 🟪 🟪 ⬛

⬛ ⬛ ⬛ ⬛

Pinning her arms above her head as I play with her clit...

Watching her writhe and moan as she cums again and again...

It's so cute when she's begging all breathlessly, tears streaming down her cheeks~

no one's doing somnophillia anymore

because of woke

fuck the way i wanna be fucked like the eager slut that i am for a pretty girl, up against a wall or up on a desk, taking their strap, just being foggy minded and not thinking of anything else but how full i am, listening to their praises and moans and pants, offering my neck for them to mark, whimpering as they bite into me, back arching as they play with my nipples, begging to cum, to be claimed, how i just wanna be theirs, nails clawing their shoulders, pleading for harder faster rougher, i-

I don't see how this is a punishment

punishing this website's residents by giving everyone on it 1 on 1 unsupervised alone time with a werewolf...

who is entirely uninterested in sex with you and wants to finish reading the most boring book you've ever seen

I'll fuck you eventually, doll, relax. Let me be a little mean first...

This is about wlw/sapphic/lesbian sex

Self

As I've observed before, not all dolls are the same. Heart, is a cute little service doll, who cleans, and sometimes cooks, making sure I'm in lovely working order. Apple is a companion doll, who's there for the other dolls, growing even close enough to Heart to form a relationship. Thread is a wind-up doll, which I'm not sure about the purpose of, but it does seem to brighten the life of the next one in question. Soul is an example of a combat doll, who's grown past its purpose, living with the others in companionship of them all, much like Apple does.

Today, a new doll approaches me. I feel its steps lift it up to my patio before it even knocks on my door. This doll certainly didn't start as a doll, as I can feel from the implication of experience on its careful footsteps. It wears a button-up shirt, tucked into a black flowing skirt, with a pair of black floral tights underneath, and a pair of glossy black shoes. Enveloping the outfit is a loose fitting flowy black jacket with a dark purple silky lining. Framed by its porcelain-white skin are a pair of similarly dark purple eyes, magnified by a pair of round glasses. In its inky black hair is a white and purple hairpin detailing a luna moth.

Its ball-jointed right hand extends as it gently and politely reaches to knock on the door, stopping as it does this. The extended hand opens as it places its palm gingerly on my front door. It stands there, feeling the wooden surface as its eyes close.

"Ah, you're much like this one, aren't you, house?" The doll smiles as a warm feeling begins to permeate my door, emanating from the doll's hand.

I allow my door to open for Self, knowing exactly the reason why it came to me. It's exactly the same as all the other dolls' reasons, the only difference being the strange nature of its existence, the perception immediately felt in its presence as it carefully continues inside. Once Self has fully entered, it crouches down to remove its shoes and leave them by my door.

It claps its hands together, bowing slightly, "Thank you for allowing its presence."

I could feel the nature of the other dolls as they entered, but Self is a mystery to me. Its presence seems to be engineered to not leave an impact behind, as it carefully and gently steps, and it seems that its mind is much the same. I expect it to make its way to the kitchen much like the other dolls, and eventually find itself in another room for it, which I've already manifested, but it actively heads in the opposite direction, opening a door into a set of bare wooden stares leading into an underground room the other dolls have left yet unopened.

The room is concrete, and once a cord is pulled at the bottom of the stairs, a lightbulb illuminates the space laid bare and empty, with nothing but a closed door on the far corner. Self approaches, gently grasping the door's handle and turning. There's little resistance aside from that of the springs in a typical doorknob, but as Self pushes, the door doesn't seem to budge. Self backs up after some pushing, and retrieves a non-distinct leather-bound black book from its jacket pocket, thumbing through the pages until it lands on a particular one, extending its right hand to the door, and chanting something under its breath.

The nature of this chant, I do not know, but I feel some energy imbue itself into the door, emanating from Self. The energy seems to attempt to rotate the door open under its own impulse, but still the door doesn't budge. Self closes the book and returns it to its jacket pocket. Its brow furrows as it still has yet to find an answer to its unasked question. Perhaps I could find said answer if it would ask, but alas, for now, I must simply wait for it to sleep, where I'll undoubtedly come to its aid, as I have all the dolls who have slept in my embrace.

For now, Self seems to resign, as it backtracks back up the steps, and paces down the hall into the kitchen. In there, it meets the other dolls, who have been sharing tea with idle conversation.

"Ah, hello. This one is Self, sorry for-" Self is interrupted by Apple.

Apple excitedly approaches Self, "A new doll! It's lovely to meet you!"

Introductions go as they tend to, as Self is served tea and properly converses with the dolls present. The conversation continues late into the night, before the new doll is guided by Cream and Sugar to its new bedroom, where it lays down on the soft bed and allows the unconscious to lead it into my embrace. I do my best to envelop it as I share a view into its emotions.

I see a witch, inexperienced, but confident in her ability. She regularly experiments with rituals involving incense and candles, recording her results into a non-distinct black leather-bound journal. In addition, she records the results of many a divination, be it from tarot cards, or a pendulum. I see her detailed drawings depicting her own processes and her notes detailing results and conditions of the rituals themselves. The occasion arrives that the witch feels the need to perform rituals for protection in a living situation she's found herself in. It of course records the conditions, the incantation, and the process, but the result seems to be ineffective. The witch's living situation only becomes more trepidatious before it ends. I watch a world come crumbling down around this witch, leaving a figure kneeling in the middle of the ruins, which I can only assume at first to be her. It's not her though, not really. The witch has gone through a transformation, whether willing or not. What's left in her place is a ball-jointed porcelain doll which once upon a time used to be a witch. Self cries amidst the wreckage of once was, forgetting about recording the result of a ritual, simply weeping and allowing itself to break, in the middle of nothing.

I envelop Self, as I do my best to reach arms around it, and pick it up into a cradle position. I manifest my mouth near its left ear and attempt to whisper to it.

My attempt is met with success, "It's okay... You don't need to hurt anymore..."