Starvation Kink 소설 & 이야기

I wrapped one of my arms around my mid-region, my face squeezing as I tried to deal with the contractions I was experiencing from the intense hunger. The last time I’d eaten anything good was the previous morning. I barely ate at the banquet last night. My eyes darted to the dresser again and seated on it, was a glass of water filled to the brim. At that moment, the hunger pangs struck again and Scott’s words from the previous night rang in my head. I was under house arrest and prohibited from eating. The reality that he’d condescend so low as to starve me just to see me bend to his will was both disgusting and nauseating and for a man of his status, it was shameful.

He ground out with narrowed eyes. “Yes, please.” I moaned clinging more to him. My pussy brushes against his length when he slides me down his body before roughly turning me around and pushing. It feels ten times more taboo and wrong than at a kink club. But we’re too far gone to care. Our mutual thirst for each other, leading our actions. King shoves my legs apart and twists my long hair in his fist, pulling until my back bows, and grabs the front of my throat. “You still want to be fucked like my whore, sweetheart?” King grunts impatiently.

A thrill shoots through me when he tightens the first one. The men I invite into my bedroom will pull my hair and boss me around. They are not true dominants and can barely call themselves a top. Damian breathes dominance and he knows all the little ways to increase the tension of a scene. The California kink community is close knit. I earned my living as an edgy Domme who's good with a whip. Publically seeking out a dominant to get me off wasn't something I was willing to risk. My mystique was half the allure and I needed every lousy dime Johnny Ford paid me.

I can only guess she’s giving him a head massage. Stalin loves his massage a lot. As someone that stresses his brain a lot the head massage helps to ease the stress and a good fuck too. When it comes to fucking, Stalin doesn’t fuck around like we used to do after I took over the mantle of leadership in the underworld. Before he kidnapped his wife during the Christmas celebration three years ago, Stalin and I indulge in three-way sex. A kink I found out lots of women out there loves. However, that three-way sex is usually a BDSM shit. Stalin and I are sadists. It’s what Igor Abramov nurtured us to be and we fully embraced it.

I dragged them slow across her lips, smearing her taste on her skin before forcing them between her teeth. “Lick it clean,” I ordered. She obeyed, tongue wrapping around me, eyes glassy and desperate. My good little wife. My ruin. I shoved her back down, my hand clamping her jaw to keep her looking at me. “You left me starving, Catalina. You’ll choke on how much I take from you tonight.” I slid lower, biting down her stomach until I reached the soft inside of her thigh. She trembled, whispering my name again like a plea. I spread her wider, my grip bruising, and buried my mouth between her legs.

He took a chair and sat near her to watch her closely. While her tongue is now numb, she feels the sting on the clothespin clipped on her nipples. She closes her eyes and starts slowly caressing herself, imagining he’s the one touching her. She inserts one of her fingers inside and moves it gradually, she starts moaning softly and her legs start to close. He observes her intently, while slowly undressing himself. The sound arouses him, the sight satisfies his kink and boosts his ego. She whimpers loudly and he detects that she’s about to reach her limit. He then removes the clothespins from her chest and licks her nipples, then stops her from touching herself.

His stillness was power; his silence was a spell. And Martha—gown clinging to her body, thighs spread wide as Number Eight’s tongue circled her clit with devastating patience—looked around at them all. These noble wives, these untouchable heiresses, women who ruled households, businesses, empires… all reduced to writhing, drooling beasts, clawing for more cock, more tongue, more pain. We are no different than starving animals, she thought, gasping as his tongue thrust inside her, hot and deep. But God, how good it feels to be starving together.

“I’m sorry to say, but this queen is a little bit of a romantic. I just haven’t met the right King of my life to retire from my throne.” Hearing that Queenie wanted to retire, many hardcore ‘beasts’ protested, further proving the point of the romantics. In retaliation, the ‘beasts’ donated enough to fill almost eighty percent of Queenie’s fourth jar for the night. Nobody complained about the results, and Queenie took the chance to remind them about what was at stake if they did overflow the fourth jar by crossing her legs ridiculously high so that they could catch a glimpse of that black stocking. “Oh dear, the next section is a little more shocking. I hope you’re ready for this. Answer for

No one knows how these mysterious killings brought about by a veiled creature began. Some of the people interviewed by Mark in the past admit that such a being is just a myth, it only exists in one's wild imagination. Yet he believes otherwise. He is a victim of the handiwork of the manananggal. He became an unwilling orphan at a young age because of it. He vowed on the grave of his parents that he will leave no stone unturned in searching for their killer.

My hunger had reached its limit, and the scent of nourishment overwhelmed my willpower. With trembling hands, I picked up the fork and took a small bite. The flavors exploded on my tongue, satisfying my hunger and awakening a long-forgotten pleasure. The men observed my capitulation with a mix of relief and satisfaction, as if fulfilling their duty to ensure my survival. As the days turned into weeks, this ritual of nourishment and submission became a routine. Each meal brought with it a delicate dance of resistance and acquiescence. I tried to maintain my independence, my spirit unyielding, but the persistent pangs of hunger weakened my resistance.