men who aren’t afraid to have make out sessions with your cunt. their tongues rolling and swirling and lapping at every puffy fold and slick crevice. their noses nudging at the hood of your clit, inhaling the addictive sweetness of your arousal. their arms curling around your thighs, forcing your legs to stay nice and open as you hump their tongue through an orgasm, body trembling from the shocks of pleasure. they’d rather die than pull away, growing annoyed as you beg them to give you a break. why should they stop? they have a perfectly good meal in front of them thats plate still needs to be licked clean.

day dreaming about how much of a giant simon riley truly is. he looms over you, his presence casting a dark shadow over your frame regardless of how massive or minimal the height difference is between you two. simon’s a tank, construed of toned muscles and meat. he makes his presence known without saying a word, his energy suffocating those lingering around him whenever he steps into a room. his biceps are the size of your head, veins bulging as the muscle tightens around your throat like a vice. he’d frequently pin you beneath him, whether it be on your front or your back. he wouldn’t dare to have a preference. he’d take you any way he can because, well, he can. he’d keep you down with his hips, rutting into you like a mad man as your pussy fluttered around his girth, arousal bubbling and drooling down your folds as he pistons into you. he’d make you feel like nothing more than a sex toy, his personal pocket pussy crafted perfectly to accommodate his brutish size. your pleas and whines would always fall on deaf ears as your drool spilled onto his forearm, the only words leaving your lips being his name and begs for more. he’d whisper filthy words into your ear, praising you for how good you’re being for him by letting him use you and how well your tight cunt always takes his cock. he’d chastise you for being such a good whore, for how greedy your cunt is to be swallowing him whole. he’d use you, fuck you like you meant absolutely nothing to him. and then, he’d take you to get ice cream after as repayment for being his special little bird.

thinking about men who read your romantic novels aloud to you, acting as your personal narrator. they’d impersonate the characters, twisting their tongues and enunciating each spoken word in the character’s faux accent. their pitch rising each time they read through the main female character’s perspective. they’d make a whole show of it, entertaining you with their perfomance while adding a few verbal annotations to the script. the only thing they’d ask for in return is for your warm mouth to be wrapped around their shaft while they read, your tongue rolling along the bumpy edges of the mushroom tip as you rest between their legs. they’d give your head a pet at the end of each chapter, an eyebrow raised as his cock twitched in your mouth, your pleading words for him to “read another chapter” reverberating around his cock.

can’t stop thinking about dragon shifter! ghost that lives alone on the far southern border of the kingdom, the last living dragon of his line. who spends most of his days roaming the curling tunnels of his den and most of his nights curled up in a bundle to preserve his warmth, his smooth, spiked tail serving as a makeshift pillow for his head.

following the days of old, you would have been brought to him as an offering on the summer’s solstice, the kingdom carrying on its centuries-old tradition of sacrificing virgins to quench the thirsts of thebeasts dwelling within the earth. upon your arrival, ghost would be able to smell your fear from a mile away and hear your heart thumping rapidly in your chest as you avoided the center of the dragon’s nest, the overwhelming sense to sink his fangs into you would send his mind into a frenzy. he’d fight the urge to shift, to allow the beast that purred within him to swoop you up and carry you to his nest.

most of your waking hours would be spent in the deepest parts of the cave anyway, burrowed somewhere in the crevices of the shifting rock to avoid the wrath of the beast. at night, long after the sun had set and your poorly made fire had burned out, ghost would appear by your side in his human form as you slept. tracing a sharp talon over the curve of your cheek, following the winding path down your neck, collarbone, and chest.

he’d drink you in, savoring the lingering scent of the heat smoldering between your thighs. his mouth would water, the pit of his belly growing warm with a fire stronger than a dragon’s breath. by sunrise, he would have abandoned you again, allowing the cycle of the day to repeat itself. leaving only a charred piece of goat’s leg and a gold goblet of water in his wake as a peace offering.