Mr. Dillinger was ruthless, both in the bedroom and in the boardroom.

He was at his most ruthless when the boardroom became the bedroom, spreading secretaries and interns across the rich maple desk, enjoying both moments of shock and submission - the first at his advance, his hands fearless and firm, the clear command in his touch, and the second at his thick, monster cock.

The subtle but inevitable conflict in their wide mascara’d eyes made him so hard: they’d already gone too far to stop, but… this?

Things get very real very fast when you’re staring at the biggest fucking cock you’ve ever seen.

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)

This photo drives me mental.

It’s the man in the back. His detached intensity makes me so wet.

No wait, it’s her, with that look on her face. Pain, humiliation, desire, pleasure. It’s a fucking miracle in a detachable bra.

Oh shit. Sorry, no, it’s definitely the guy she’s riding, specifically that grip on her hips. Driving her onto his thick, bobbing dick, his face blazing with exertion.

And watching with focus is that fucking groom in the back. Wait. Okay, it’s definitely him, his cock hard as concrete under his still, carefully folded hands. 

This photo drives me mental.

(Source: squidintestines)

I had a man once who loved talking in my ear when we fucked.

Nothing makes me cum harder than a sex-slurred stream of filth, turning on the speaker as much or more as the listener.

“Your pussy feels so fucking good. Damn you’re so wet. You like that? You like my cock fucking you this way?”

My answer is rarely a specifically spoken ‘yes’, but the message gets through, loud and clear, in the language of moan and writhe and scream.

Redhead with ripped jeans and small pink nipples standing in front of modern art?

I push her against the pointillist mural, her body cold from the long photo shoot. Our lips meet. It happens so quickly - one hand pulls the small of her back, the other pushing into the front of her hot jeans. My body is pressing, one leg spreads hers apart just enough.

She’s responding like I hoped she would. Wet. Panting. Returning my intensity. 

Fuuuuck that is a hot fantasy. 

Of course I’ve fantasized about doing a rock band in a high priced hotel room.

It’s silent but for the slurping sound as I bob between their thick cocks, my fresh little mouth trailing strings of spit. I hear one moan “so fucking hot”. His voice is thick and throaty, not meant to be heard. 

I cum on their fucking legs.

Sure they can keep the photos.

A lot of men don’t know that this level of rough is totally cool with most girls. Use your strength, cowboy. Let her show you how much take a woman’s body can give. *

* within respectful and legal boundaries, obviously, okay?

Horny hipster girls eating pussy with bruises on their bony knees and skinny thighs get me crazy hot.

What can I say? I’m totally Sleaze Nation.

Yeah… maybe I’ll let this one speak for itself. 

Or maaaaybe I’ll give a nod to my English Lit degree and throw down some Gulliver fanfic to take this to the next level! Here I go y’all:

I closed my eyes, dear reader, sure that it was not wrong to crush the single tab of ecstasy I had been given by the Ibizans, which had been tucked safely in my small leather pouch, and to dissolve it in the drum of honeyed dew, drunk only by the sweet virgin maidens of Lilliput.

Their pleasure was evident in their throaty exaltations, and, readers, the later scene during which I witnessed them bathing in my salty man-slickness was one upon which I thought in many a future self-flogging, indeed wondering darkly whether more than one Gulliver Jr. grew giant in Lilliputian belly that year.

Just call me Muffathan Swift.