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.

The Architecture of the Whisper (For Lara)

There is a quiet heaviness in me—

a shared breath where memory and skin collide.

Every struggle leaves its phantom mark:

not a scream, not a scar,

but a weight in the pause between our words,

a glance that lingers

until the air grows thin.

I am the guide who does not pull,

the lead that does not snap.

I let your resistance breathe—

let it bloom in the dark—

only to break the stem

at the perfect hour,

at the exact moment

your will begins to bend.

My tenderness is a shifting shadow:

warm enough to draw you from the light,
cold enough to whisper the truth—

that this devotion has a price,

and the coin is everything you are.

The restraints are not a game we play;

they are the deep, gasping breath after the war—

a silent pact signed in the heat of the clash,

where we agree to the fire

we’ve built.

To win, to lose—

these are minor things,

fractions of a hollow sum.

The real battle begins

in the low-lit whispers,

and ends in the salt and the dark,

at the exact point

where trust and the abyss

finally merge into one.

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Brentwood Rivals

I watch her.

Her eyes track my every motion—

jealous, tense—
her gaze a blade of jagged need.

She covets what’s mine.

She wants her.

And sooner or later,
she will move to take her.

We both know the ritual.

As women do,

we will speak in teeth and nails,

in the brutal music of impact and breath.

In the alley behind Sunset,

or on the polished hardwood of Brentwood,

we will debate our claim with skin and bruises—

each strike a question,

each gasp a frantic answer.

My body already remembers the pattern:

the tightening of thigh,

the heave of breast,

the low, electric hum before the lunge.

The ghost-feel of fingers tangled in hair,

the salt of desire and wet heat.

She catches my gaze.
Neither of us blinks—

predator meeting predator,

sisters in the art of wanting.

The doe watches from the bar,

waiting to see which of us will break the other,

and who she slips under tonight.

Desire stirs like a fever—

a hot, wet hunger to demonstrate our superiority

to see the other beneath us, mewling.

Tonight, one of us will learn the kiss of thorns—

the price of the crown we seek—

and lie in the bed of pain we have built for each other.

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The Liturgy of Ache

We circle each other like dark priestesses—

offering pain as prayer, pleasure as sacrament.

We worship the tension:

the long, excruciating wait,
the breath held before claws meet skin.

This ache is a living thing.

It coils in the dark between us,

daring us to demand

what the other refuses to yield.

And when we finally clash—

rolling across the floor

in our naked, terrible glory—

even the gods go quiet.

The boards groan

under the gravity of our want.

Nails rake as we hiss and moan.

Hair litters the floor

as we scream out hate.

The air thickens with musk,
with salt,
 with the sacred violence of women

who have forgotten how to hold back.

And when the silence returns—

when we lie shattered and wet,

your nails etched into my side,

our souls unspooled—

we know the truth:

It was never just lust.

It was an offering.

It was a recognition.

It was a vow.

Before you, I unfasten the mask.

I bare my truth—

not as surrender,

but as conquest.

I give it to you, sister:

the silk of my fingers,

the breath before the kiss,

the purple kisses across your skin,

the dance we never leave.

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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.

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Start of membership: 2025-06-07