#cnc content

[the-dread-quinn]

[hotwife-fling]

[skipink4l]

😋Something like thisss

[the-dread-quinn]

[m1ndch4rm3r]

One of several morning gifts from my precious pet. Her obedience is as large as these luscious tits, and just as firm 💕 Such a lucky man I am to have such a cute doll

[ickypuppyyy]

hurry up!! we don’t have much longer ‘we have plenty of time calm down’ we only have like- ‘over an hour until mom and dad get home. okay? just admit you’re needy as fuck for me and we can get on with it’ fuck off ‘okay i’ll go play cod’ noo no no no just come on please ‘please what?’ please fuck me, i’m so fucking needy for you fuck me already i’ll do anything ‘hmm that’s more like it sis’

[thedeafprophet]

Being called out 😭

[satanicbratt]

[imjusthella-gay]

i just wanna fuck a needy little pussy so good right now. to make someone squirm and twitch uncontrollably. become stupid because of how good i'm making them feel. fuck their insides so hard and rub their clit until its red and swollen, hypersensitive and throbbing for hours after i take my hands off of them. make them such a dripping. sloppy mess. fuck them so good that once i stop, they can't stand the feeling of being empty. beg me to fill you the fuck up again and again.

[ullyania-blog]

bathroom decor pt.2 🫧

hand soap & lotion || brushes || robe ||

coconut milk || hand soap || bathroom set ||

towels || body care || robe ||

toilet brush holder || tray || toilet paper ||

[needy-thing]

i’m so high and just thinking about someone talking down to me in the most gentle and kind way is making my cunt flutter. not even a degrading “talking down,” more loving, like an “I know you can’t think so hard right now so let me make my words nice and easy for you” dumbing down.

[pupsec]

𐔌 、toji　ﾉ　desperate for money, he takes a job from the dark web: break into a girl’s house for a twisted roleplay she’s willing to pay thousands for 𓈒　◟

cw: dubconノCNC roleplay ノ home invasion ノ explicit content ノdark themes ϑϱ

୨ৎ dead dove: do not eat！minors, blank & ageless blogs will be blocked ୨୧

You’re home alone.

That fact alone isn’t strange—it’s your night off, you’ve got leftovers in the fridge and no plans besides a bath, wine, and maybe one of those trashy novels you pretend you’re too good for. Your apartment is silent except for the quiet hum of the AC and the occasional creak of an old wall settling. Just the usual. Familiar.

And then you hear the front door open.

Not a knock.

Not a jingle of keys.

A click. A turn. A push.

You freeze on the couch, phone mid-scroll, your whole body tensing like a rabbit catching the shadow of wings overhead. There shouldn’t be anyone. You live alone. You don’t have roommates. You didn’t order food. No one should be here.

Your heart stutters.

You think about calling the cops—but something holds you back.

Something primal and wrong and crawling, like instinct knows before your brain does: it’s too late.

Heavy footfalls echo on the hardwood. Measured. Slow. Predatory.

You shoot up off the couch, but he’s already there.

Tall. Broad. Dressed in black. Combat boots. Tactical pants. A long-sleeved shirt tight enough to stretch across brutal muscle. A ski mask over his face. And in one gloved hand, a gun.

Pointed right at your chest.

“Don’t move.”

You do. Of course you do. You stumble back like a fucking idiot, lips parting to scream—but he’s already on you. That gun presses right against your sternum, and his other hand is fisted in your hair, yanking your head back.

“Scream and I shoot.”

Your breath hitches.

You believe him. God help you, you believe every syllable.

“What do you want?” you gasp, your voice breaking under the pressure of a fear that smells like sweat and adrenaline and the faintest twinge of arousal. “I don’t have anything, please—”

“I’m not here for your things.” The voice is low. Rough. Feral. “I’m here for you.”

You shake your head, confused, terror-stricken—but he’s already shoving you, guiding you backward, pushing you toward the hallway that leads to your bedroom. The cold steel of the gun never leaves your chest.

“I have money—” you offer, voice high, trying to stay calm. “I—I can get you cash, or my phone, or—”

“I told you. I’m not here for money.”

Then you’re in your room.

He kicks the door shut behind him with a dull thud that feels like a coffin sealing. Then he steps closer—looming over you, eyes unreadable behind the mask—and shoves you down onto the bed.

You struggle. You can’t help it. You twist and thrash and claw, but his body dwarfs yours. He’s pure muscle and violence, kneeling between your thighs and grabbing your wrists in one massive hand. The gun is pressed to your neck now, cold and unyielding.

“Move again,” he growls, “and I’ll paint your fucking walls with your brains.”

You whimper. Nod.

Then he rips your shirt open.

The sound of fabric tearing is violent, obscene, louder than your ragged breath or the frantic thump of your pulse. Your bra is next—cut in half by a blade you didn’t even see him draw—and your tits bounce free, nipples already hard from fear or the rush of blood, you don’t know.

His hand is at his belt next. Pants dropped. His cock is thick, long, heavy, the kind of weapon your body has no business trying to take.

He doesn’t even undress you fully. Just yanks your shorts and panties down around your ankles, leaving you bare and vulnerable, your cunt wet and twitching in spite of your fear.

“You sick little thing,” he murmurs, dragging the head of his cock along your slit, smearing your wetness. “You’re fucking soaked. Is this turning you on?”

“No,” you breathe, but your body says otherwise.

The next sound you make is a scream—muffled by the gloved hand he shoves into your mouth—when he thrusts into you hard and fast, splitting you open without warning.

It’s brutal. Deep. The air punched from your lungs.

You try to thrash but the weight of him pins you down. The gun’s pressed against your cheek now, kissing your skin like a lover, cold metal dragging through the tears on your face.

“You feel that?” he hisses, voice close to your ear. “You feel that cock splitting your little cunt open? You fucking like this?”

You hate how it feels. You hate how it hurts.

You hate how your cunt grips him like it needs him.

His hips slam forward again, hard, each thrust forcing a whimper from your throat. The way he fucks you is punishing, relentless. He doesn’t care if you cum. He doesn’t care if you bleed. He’s using you like a thing.

And god, it’s disgusting how much of you wants it.

“You were waiting for this, weren’t you?” he grunts, slamming into you. “Just lying here in this pretty little house, hoping someone like me would come ruin you.”

He pulls out suddenly—makes you cry out with the emptiness—and flips you onto your stomach. Then he yanks your hips up, grabs your hair like reins, and fucks back into you even harder, the gun now nestled against the base of your skull.

Your pussy is raw, soaked, stretched around him so tightly you can barely breathe. And still you take it. Still your body sings for it.

“Please,” you sob, not even sure what you’re begging for.

“Please what?”

“Don’t stop.”

A low, dangerous laugh.

Then his pace increases. Your ass is slapping against his hips now, the sound sick and wet and loud, echoing through the room like music from hell. You’re crying and gasping and clawing at the sheets as he ruins you from behind, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other presses the gun harder against your skull.

“I should blow your brains out,” he growls, fucking deeper. “But then I couldn’t keep this sweet little hole for myself.”

You feel the orgasm build before you even realize what it is. It sneaks up on you—hot and mean and wicked—curling your toes and making your legs shake. And when it hits, it wrecks you. Your pussy clamps down around his cock, milking him, screaming his name like you fucking own him.

But you don’t.

He finishes a heartbeat later, deep inside you, cock twitching as he fills you with hot, thick cum. He holds there—still buried in you, panting against your neck—before slowly pulling out.

Your cunt is wrecked, leaking, red and trembling, abused in the most obscene way.

He stands.

Tucks himself back into his pants.

Leaves you there on the bed, ruined and soaked and twitching.

Then, casually, he pulls out a phone. Checks a message. And blinks.

“Oh.”

You watch him from where you’re curled on the bed, barely able to breathe, still shaking.

He glances at you again.

Shrugs.

Wrong house.