Introduction

I am only interested in women, for those who know how to write, to love, fuck and fight with passion and need. So no men.

In terms of wants, sexfights and catfights are my primary interest, but if you touch me properly I will melt into you and whisper sonnets between your thighs and moan as your fingers and tongue unravel me.

Tribbing War

It started with taunts—

whose cunt was better,

whose mouth knew more.

But we weren’t good girls,

and we both knew exactly what we wanted.

And here we were:

thighs open and slick,

staking our claim.

The steady slap of my hips against yours—
relentless, building,

each thrust a hammer striking fire.

We lock eyes,

desperation rising like a tide,

each of us fighting not to drown first.

I hiss—half growl, half moan:

"You will feel every filthy inch of this slut."

I drive my cunt against yours

with merciless force—

SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.

Louder. Wetter.

Our cunts battling for dominance.

I take your breath.

Take your control.

Fuck you like I’m drowning—

and you’re air.

I want you to break against me,

to shatter across my lips with sweet moans.

You drop your mouth onto my nipples—

teeth sinking,
tongue claiming—

I almost lose it then and there.

I’m soaked,

dripping at the thought.

Pressure coils between us,

clits locked in savage dance,

trembling, pulsing,

groans ripping from our throats

as pleasure turns unbearable.

"Yes—keep going, bitch—

don’t you fucking stop!"
The rhythm goes wild—

SMACK! smack smack—

out of control, feral.

Your teeth brand my nipples,

growling like a beast at its feast.

My pussy quivers, shakes,

hot and merciless against yours.

You release my nipples—
swollen, aching—

and claim my mouth,

tongue pushing past my teeth.

Our tongues fight—

rolling, tugging, sucking—

claiming.

Our hips roll and twist,

grinding clit to clit,

punishing our lips without mercy.

You moan into my mouth:

"Not… gonna… stop…

not gonna let you go

until you CUM,
you fucking slut!"

I bite your lower lip,

malicious smirk burning red,

sweat and sex thick in the air.

Wet skin smacks wet skin

as our hips bounce off the mattress

only to slam down again.

One final challenge—

who cums first—

I want to rip your orgasm from the depths

with every forceful

smack…

smack…

smack…

And then the moans come,

as we break against each other,

cum flooding between our thighs.

We collapse, gasping—
slick, marked,

already aching

for round two.
...................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Triad (Vanessa, Sarah and I)

Months of messages, voice notes, confessions—

late-night fights and filthy role-play,

our words ripe with honeyed intent.

And now here I am,

in the heart of Texas,

finally pulled into your arms

while your wife Sarah watches, smiling—

her eyes alight with curiosity and invitation.

You kiss me deeply,

hands roaming—urgent, possessive—

reading every curve

with that knowing smile.

Sarah moves beside us—

a steady presence,

fingers brushing my wrist,
grounding and igniting in the same breath,

touching us both.

Clothes are shed in haste.

Breaths quicken.

Pulses race.

My fingers slide between your slick folds—

slow, deliberate, welcomed—

while Sarah,

the quiet temptress,
slips behind me

and begins to finger me

with maddening skill.

Her touch isn’t hurried—

it’s practiced, knowing.

A hot fullness blooms inside me.

My body yields without hesitation.

I moan—raw, involuntary—

at her sensual precision.

I pull my fingers from you,

bring them to my lips—

savoring your taste like a secret—

then kiss Sarah,

pressing your essence into her mouth.

She purrs,

eyes fluttering.

You watch us,
breath shallow,

as we explore each other.

No rush.

Just open lust.

You tell us what you want,

voice hoarse with need.

Sarah pulls me onto the bed.

I follow, starving.

My mouth finds her breasts,

tongue circling tight nipples.

She shivers.

You whisper,

“Sit on her face.”

Sarah grins

like she’s waited all night for this.

I straddle her, thighs trembling,

and she opens me with her tongue—

slow at first,
then relentless.
“Oh god—

oh god—

oh god—“

her breath, her lips, that tongue.

And then you—

you beautiful, wicked thing—

slip behind me,

kissing my neck,

cupping my breasts,

pressing your hard nipples

into my back like brands.

Your hands glide upward,

fingers circling my throat—

a light choke,
just enough to sharpen the air—

and I twist,

searching for your mouth,

needing the crush of your lips.

Below,

Sarah flicks, laps, devours.

Above,

you pinch, roll, twist my nipples—

sending shockwaves to my core,

drawing wetness from me

like a confession.

I let myself go.

Your nipples graze my back,

skin to skin,

your breath hot at my ear.

You bite me—

soft, possessive.

The room fills with sound:

soft sighs, muffled moans,

wet mouths,
desperate fingers.

Our mingled scents—

musky, sweet, electric—

rise like incense between us.

You growl into my ear:

“Ride her face like the little slut you are.”

Your fingers find my clit—

relentless,

circling,

pressing—

and the wave

crests.

I

break.

My hips buck wild,

grinding deep,

a warm rush spilling over Sarah’s waiting mouth.

She moans—

almost tenderly—

as if this too is her confession.

I lean back into you,

into your strength,

trembling, thrusting, open—

every nerve a fire,

every breath a moan—

until the world narrows
to wet heat

and nothing remains

but the sweet,

shuddering

surrender.
....................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Thorns in Her Mouth

She kissed me with a mouth full of thorns,

soft lips hiding savage truths.

I bled for her —

and she licked it like honey.

Her want was not tender.

It was ruin in velvet,

an invitation to be unmade.

She undressed me with her gaze,

not to admire —

but to disarm.

To expose the flesh where wounds might bloom.

“Give me your pain,” she said,

as if asking for perfume.

I handed it over.

She wore it like pearls.

We did not make love.

We made war in whispers.

A devotion dressed in bruises.

She took me

not with mercy,

but with meaning.

And I,

I let her.

Because some women don’t want gentle.

Some women want the ache,

the fire,

the altar of another’s mouth

crushed against theirs

until neither knows where one ends

and the other begins.

She kissed me with a mouth full of thorns —

and I opened willingly,

welcoming every cut

like a prayer.

......................................................................................................................................................................................................................

She Came in Lace

I bite her lip,
as she bites mine,

two vipers coiled in silk and wine.

Her breasts bore welts where I had fed,

and still she smiled,
her mouth blood-red.

She came in lace,
with dagger eyes,

and unleashed her sins between our thighs.

We kissed like queens who’d lost their throne,

each gasp a curse,
each moan a groan.

She chained me with her stockinged leg,

I crowned her with my nail’s cruel edge.

We obeyed no man,
no God, no name—

but made our lust a kindled flame.

"Submit," she sneered, and so I rose—

my hand upon her throat like prose.

We fought with our sex,
fingers, and thighs,

each climax stitched with honeyed lies.

A rivalry?
A raptor’s kiss.

She marked my soul in every hiss.

I carved my way down to her root,

and suckled vengeance like a fruit.

Her cries were mine. The tears were hers.

We fed on spite and silken slurs.

Let saints go blind, let angels fall—

we made our love a mirrored brawl.

And when we came, the night grew still,

as if the moon bowed to our will.

She licked her wound and laughed at fate—

“My rival, yes, and perfect mate.”

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Start of membership: 2025-06-07