puppytopper

[puppytopper]

if my body is a temple then why isn’t there a priest inside it

[puppytopper]

Struggling to explain that my ideal relationship dynamic is basically evil god x devoted dog.

[puppytopper]

gonna “shh, it’s okay. mommy’s got you” my way into the pretty boy with mommy issues.

[puppytopper]

[puppytopper]

werewolf tdick that gets bigger when they transform so they can fuck you properly while they’re a snarling growling mess of teeth and claws

[puppytopper]

also speaking of my exhibitionist ass, if i was ever hanging out with friends and they asked to see my tits i’d sooo excitedly pop my top pretty much no matter where we were

[puppytopper]

Sometimes sex is lying in bed looking at morally questionable porn together while touching yourselves

[puppytopper]

Trans men who are freaks. Trans men who need the most depraved porn to get off. Trans men who are too nervous to even show you their porn. Trans men who won't tell you their kinks in case they gross you out but never say no when you want to try something new. Trans men who spend every free moment thinking about the kinky ways you could fuck them so they're always wet and ready when you want to fuck them.

[puppytopper]

T boys deserve tummy bulges from having massive cocks shoved in their cunts rb if you agree

[puppytopper]

Your immediate family is not very wealthy, but your childless and unmarried uncle sure is. So your parents start to push you to be closer with him - nothing inappropriate, of course, but wouldn’t it just be so great if you bonded a little bit more with him? He’s your uncle after all, he’s your family! You should be closer! And if he just so happens to grow fond of you and starts to consider you as the child he never had and decides to leave his fortune to you in his will, well, wouldn’t that just be perfect?

So the next time there’s a family gathering, your mother insists on you wearing that pendant your uncle had given you on your first birthday. It is not your style at all, but you can see how your mother barely holds back a grin when he notices it, when he says how happy he is that you appreciate it. And your parents don’t seem to mind how his eyes linger on your neck and drift down your body.

“Look at you, all grown up. And so pretty, too.”

It makes you feel more than a bit odd, but when you glance at the faces of your parents, you know you can’t bring that up to them. It was just a compliment, wasn’t it? You shouldn’t make a fuss about such things, so you won’t.

They see to it that you sit beside him at the table. You can feel their eyes on you, and urged by their gaze, you laugh at your uncle’s every joke - even the ones that make your stomach turn with anger and shame in equal measure. But you think that that’s the worst of it. A bit of flattery, as fake as it is, is a low price to pay for what you could gain. It certainly seems to work, because he looks at you and he smiles and compliments you.

“So many of the girls in your generation don’t know how to take a joke.”

And then you feel his hand, large and heavy and inescapable, resting on your thigh under the table. You glance at him, but he’s in the middle of explaining some old boating story to your older cousins and your father. He isn’t even looking at you. But his thumb is slowly caressing you through the fabric of your dress.

There’s no way for you to rationalise this. There is no excuse for him to do this. You try to scoot away as far as your seat will allow, but then that idle touch turns into a grip. He doesn’t pause his story, doesn’t even glance at you when he forces you to stay still beside him. You try to search your mother’s eyes, tell her without words that you’re in trouble, that you need help, mom, mom please, but she’s all too engrossed in a conversation on the fate of the department store downtown with her sister-in-law.

For a sweet moment you feel relief when the weight of his hand is lifted from your thigh. But then, his fingertips slide down the fabric, until he finds the hem of your dress and flips it under the table. And then his touch returns, his palm warm and rough and even heavier than before when it rests on your bare skin. Your father is laughing loudly at the punchline of the boating story when your uncle starts to slowly massage your flesh, inching up with every squeeze.

You reach under the table yourself, and grab his wrist. And he lets go - only for a second and only to slap at your hand, as if you were nothing but a petulant child. His touch returns where it was, unbothered. His little finger brushes against your underwear, and your breath hitches. It doesn’t help that you try to clamp your thighs shut, his hand pushes between them anyway. You can almost catch his smile widening when he realises how shamefully slick your panties are.

Your uncle glances at you, and asks you something while his fingers trace your slit through the soaked fabric.

“W-what?”

“Awww,” he coos, and at the same time, slips his hand past the waistband of your panties, “Looks like the wine might be getting to you, sweetheart.”

Laughter. Your family is laughing at you when your uncle starts to caress your slick folds, and your cheeks are burning. You force out a hollow chuckle even as you feel like crying. How can none of them see what is happening? How can they just ignore how his arm is moving, outstretched and obvious? They go back to their little conversations like usual and you bite back a whimper when his fingers find your clit.

Your uncle leans close to you, the scent of Amouage Jubilation and cigar smoke unable to completely cover the wine on his breath.

“It’s fine. A little thing like you can’t be expected to keep up with everything.”

Your thighs have fallen open under the table and you glance at him, wordlessly begging him to stop tracing idle, teasing patterns on your slick flesh. But he just smiles, adds another finger, and turns to the others for a new story.

The hand inside your underwear starts to work on you quicker when you notice how your mother looks at you. There’s an uneasy smile on her face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and the slightest, helpless crease between her brows. The feeling of betrayal snakes into the bottom of your stomach and laces the pleasure even more bitter than humiliation did.

“Everything okay, angel?”

And you know there’s only one answer she’ll allow. You have to close your eyes so no one would notice them roll back in your head as your uncle presses the heel of his palm against your mound and starts rubbing his fingers in tight circles.

“Yes…” you moan through gritted teeth, eyes squeezing closed as you come on your uncle’s hand, under your mother’s gaze. The seat underneath you has a wet patch now, and you are feeling lightheaded, breathless. Your uncle just pats your thigh, fingers slick and sticky with you. Inconspicuously, in the middle of laughing at his own anecdote, he wipes his fingers in a napkin that he then tucks in his pocket.

Your parents are overjoyed when, after the dinner, your uncle asks if he can take you for a vacation to his house in the Amalfi Coast.

[puppytopper]

just so you all know, tops like to be stuffed full with cock, too. if you think we can’t still fuck you until your brain leaks out your cunt with a toy buried so far in us it’s at risk of never coming back out, you’re not thinking outside the box.

[puppytopper]

9:56 AM

[puppytopper]

tdick is so sensitive it wouldn’t even be hard to make me cum on your dick while you’re raping me. and everyone knows that sluts who cum during rape deserved it 💕 imagine feeling my cunt clench around you as my body gives you permission to keep using me as your bitch no matter how hard i’m crying and begging for you to stop

[puppytopper]

the fact it was a tentacle has made me feral, actually, so I’ll be thinking about this for several days now

fuckin my gspot through my ass. if you even care

[puppytopper]

The Father from your church has always been there when you needed someone — some gentle, wise and nurturing presence, to be specific, what with your own parents failing to fulfill that role. Especially your father. The priest has actually known you ever since you were a cherub-faced infant, being the one who baptized you. He has seen you grow, and he taught you about faith every Sunday after the Mass and let you stay there long after the other children had been picked by their parents. He saw to your Confirmation, and you swear that his gaze was just a little bit warmer, just a little bit prouder, when it stopped on you.

He’s decades older than you, of course. There’s a good deal of silver in his hair and worry lines on his forehead and you suspect you caused them as a child, and now they have just never gone away. But there’s also crows’ feet that deepen with a smile every time he sees you. You search for him when you can, and sit too close to him in the empty church and lean your head on his chest and trace your fingers over the wrinkles and veins over the back of his hands. You breathe in his scent, incense and old books and age, and he doesn’t stop you when you press your face into the crook of his neck, almost kissing his clerical collar. You were always an affectionate child, at least towards him, and he never quite learned how to push you away.

Not even now when you’re on his lap, clutching at the black wool fabric of his cassock as you slowly grind yourself against him. He is breathing heavily, steadying you against himself with those old hands on your hip and in your hair. You whimper into his neck, a mix of his name and “Father”, over and over again. He stays quiet and still despite being embarrassingly hard, only gently shushing you when you whimper. This is a sin, yes, but not the worst kind. Nothing irreparable.

Not physically, anyway.

He tastes of guilt when you press your lips on him and he kisses you back. The priest thinks with some melancholy about the fact that you’re all grown up now, and gone is that little girl whom he had imagined he could forever love without the stain of sin. He had always taken pride in being to you what your parents weren’t. He had thought that to be his role and purpose, a Father in every sense of the word. But then you had gone and become a woman, and he is only a man, and he is so, so weak.

“Father…”

“Yes, yes, I’m right here, my darling… Shhh…”

His eyes flutter closed as he hears and feels you moan against his pulse. Bittersweetness doesn’t quell the warmth at the bottom of his stomach. Pride is a sin, even pride taken in false fatherhood, he realises that now. He had been foolish, imagining that he was a better man than he is, and it’s the fault of his weakness that that little girl, that daughter of his in everything but blood, is gone—

”Dad…!”

You both freeze when you say that. You clearly hadn’t meant to. But from your mouth, “Father” has never been just a clerical title, has it? And now he’s looking at you in a way he never has before, bewildered and somehow terrified. His voice is a throaty croak, as if he’s short on air.

“Say it again.”

“…D-dad…?”

He mutters something under his breath, “Good Heavens” perhaps, ever mindful of his language in your presence even now. Something is wrong, he knows, terribly, awfully wrong. His old, hubristic and undeservedly possessive affection for the little girl you were is mating with the adoration and desire for the woman you are, to birth an altogether new sin that has him loathing himself. But self-loathing and fear and shame do nothing about him being painfully aroused.

He has you pressed down on the pew before either of you can fully understand what he’s doing, hands grasping your thighs with force you didn’t know he even possessed.

His hips snap forward.

“Dad!”

Your startled moans echo from the high stone walls of the chapel as he starts rutting into you through the fabrics. You both know that it is only by the grace of impatience that saves him from tearing off your clothes and ruining whatever virtue you have left.

“Dad!”

”Sweet child…! Yes, dad is here. Dad is right here…!”

His brows knit together in an almost painful expression, yet the look in his eyes is tender, loving. You cry out and call him “dad” over and over again, and he has never been happier.

[puppytopper]

yeah dadcest sex blah blah blah. sex horny yeah yeah sure. dadcest who asks me if i’ve eaten today. drank water?? brushed my teeth?? gone outside?? showered?? if i went to bed on time?? WHEN??? 🙄🙄 dadcest that actually acts like a dad when.

[puppytopper]

…..oh, okay, I care a lot abt this actually, please elaborate

fuckin my gspot through my ass. if you even care