They chose dare. 

It’s been very winter-y here as of late.

I haven’t done anything like this. 

I did, however, make a few snowballs on my balcony just the other day, and stored them in my freezer. The snow was fluffy and light like in this photo. It made my hands red, a kind of dry burn that became more painful when I warmed them up later.

I can only imagine how it would feel packed tight between spread legs, melting against warm pussy lips. Can you?

The first time I read Snow White, I had a hard time envisioning the beauty of that description: skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and her hair as black as coal.

Well now look at this girl, cold and smooth on the floor of the cabin where she wakes, still sleepy. She’s uncloaked, expensively dressed yet without escort or asset. Her skin is so pale, it excites you the whiter it becomes, those private places untouched by sun.

Her hair is black, formally arranged. Your thick, stubby cock is hard as oak. You want to run your hands all over her body, bite some red into her lips.

You look up. Lean out the window and yell to Doc outside:

“Call the other dwarves, there’s going to be a gang bang”

(Source: syntheticpubes)

Fuck I would reblog this without the jean shorts, just for the knowing, sexy look on this girl’s face. 

Also, something about her body is messing with my head. It’s like her thorax and abdomen are separated, like an ant’s. That is all kinds of hot.

technologicalstimulation:

just should be an automatic reblog for glittermuff -TS

(Source: anuglybeauty)

Threads of smokey gas still wind through the house. She moves silently to the door like a cat, barely distracted by the madness around her.

The Senator’s son’s bachelor party was over. His friends, their fathers, fraternity brothers, others - all dead, lying in awkward, unnatural poses as they’d stood, circling her in wild camaraderie, just seconds before. 

The vial had been in the spine of her cd case. She’d pulled off the move handily, cracking the plastic quietly in her hand as she stomped a heel on the hardwood. She’d turned around. Spread her legs soooooo slowly as she breathed in deeply and bent over. 

She’d closed her eyes, drew circles in the air with her tight smooth ass, waited for the sound of coughing. It came. Became choking. Lasted. Stopped. Surveying the room, she turned with a clip and walked towards the front door.

You know who she is - the baddest stripper assassin there ever was.

Okay society, it’s your call.

Sure, you could bemoan the death of modesty, blinded only by the muffin tops that peek out over cheap stretched out g-strings.

Or you could embrace the death of modesty, knowing that a single sophisticated woman sipping espresso with her shirt off in a small European bistro makes up for all the rest of the madness.

Happy New Years Motherfuckers! And Fatherfuckers, and Daughterfuckers and Sonfuckers too! I think that covers everyone getting well screwed into the next calendar year.

May your 2011 begin with glitter and doe-eyed looks from punk rock girls with creamy smooth boobs.

The summer they turned fifteen, Megan and Melanie discovered the cutaway under the bushes, the small patch of grass behind the pool house.

It started with dares, stumbling and innocent articulations of desire. “Take off your bikini top”, “Make a hickey on my stomach”. 

Soon they were kissing, touching, learning that sexuality was far more playground than battlefield.

The belt. Oh god, the fucking belt.

In my experience, it’s every man’s “no turning back” accessory. As that leather tongue snakes out of the metal hinge I feel my brain turning off, my focus 100% on the physical.