#Le Petit Trou
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digitalfountains · 4 days ago
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Geenah Philander by Talya Brockmann
- Le Petit Trou, 2023
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martysimone · 2 years ago
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Le Petit Trou | Crabe ‱ ruffled sheer tulle set + little crab embroidery
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luegootravez · 7 months ago
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Léna Ballayre by © Lauren Spitznagel
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modelpluswarsaw · 2 years ago
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Dominika Drozdowska for LE PETIT TROU New Arrivals captured by Ɓukasz Kuƛ 
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thefashionforwardfiles · 16 days ago
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Elle USA November 2024 issue||October 23 2024|Styled by Alex White|Photographed by Carin Backoff|
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Kylie Jenner wears Le Petit Trou tomate briefs
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maitresse-des-tempetes · 2 months ago
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Ok donc pour une petite relance...
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Son cas m'intrigue vraiment parce que c'est difficile de dire avec une complĂšte certitude d'oĂč il vient. Il est dit qu'il est Frontalier mais curieusement la plupart des frontaliers ne sont pas dessinateurs oĂč trĂšs mauvais, il est une anomalie qui amĂšne Ă  se poser des questions. On peut peut-ĂȘtre imaginer qu'il a eu un parcours similaire Ă  celui d'Ewilan (passĂ© dans notre monde dans sa jeunesse, puis reparti en Gwendalavir des annĂ©es aprĂšs peut-ĂȘtre pour sauver son peuple, lui mĂȘme un prodige comme Ewilan ; ils se jouent tous deux des verrous mis par les Ts'liches sur l'imagination). S'il fait en effet partie de la huitiĂšme famille cela suggĂšre qu'il n'est pas que frontalier (et encore c'est dur de savoir si les frontaliers existaient tels quels dans l'Ăąge de mort durant lequel Merwyn est nĂ©). On peut imaginer (soyons fous) qu'il soit nĂ© de l'union improbable entre un habitant de notre monde et un frontalier de Gwendalavir (aprĂšs tout les unions improbables donnant des rejetons particuliers c'est une mission implicite des Guides dans l'Autre, et Merlin dans les lĂ©gendes est souvent une sorte de sang-mĂȘlĂ©) - compliquĂ© Ă  expliquer mais aprĂšs tout il a bien fallu que les ancĂȘtres des alaviriens et autres humans dans ce monde y dĂ©barquent d'une maniĂšre oĂč d'une autre. Avec ce raisonnement on peut mĂȘme se demander s'il ne vient pas Ă  la base de notre monde, et qu'il s'est intĂ©grĂ© dans la culture frontaliĂšre Ă  un moment. Il n'a pas l'air d'ĂȘtre un guerrier de prime abord. En plus les alaviriens sont peut-ĂȘtre un peu nuls pour documenter clairement leur passĂ© et certaines vĂ©ritĂ©s sont peut-ĂȘtre cachĂ©es ou perdues (la guilde des rĂȘveurs dont on dit qu'ils ont des savoirs particuliers...)
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hiddenworldofmary · 9 months ago
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it is perhaps a slightly crazy late night idea but i think i’m going to try turning an old and torn fitted bedsheet into a very basic replica of a discontinued le petit trou pyjama set đŸȘĄđŸ€
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homomilitia · 1 year ago
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I wish i had no tits so i could wear lacey bras
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sansaleira · 5 months ago
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Le Petit Trou
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thezeninclan · 4 months ago
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“d-don’t stop.” you moaned. “please I c-can’t take it.” 
he chuckled lowly. “yeah?”
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from the moment you had answered the phone the sounds from the other end of the line had been obvious— the soft, slick noises, the breathy sounds, the barely suppressed moans. he was asking you to talk for him, nothing overtly sexual at first, just asking about your day, did you have dinner plans, how did your new shoes feel, how did you sleep last night . he just wanted, needed, to hear your voice. 
“you’ve been working too much.” you scolded. he laughed, the soft sound you had so long ago fallen in love with, and you knew he was rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, a telltale sign of weariness. you wanted to be where he was, brush back his hair for him, kiss his tired eyes, undo his tight tie. 
“I always work too much.” he returned. 
“you don’t have to tell me that. my poor vibrator has run out of batteries faster these last few months than all its years combined.” 
“oh yeah?” he questioned. you could hear the grin in his voice. you smiled to yourself, mentally kicking your feet and giggling at the way his breathy voice came over the line. “poor baby. must be so hard when I’m not there to take care of you.”
“I think it’s the lack of hardness that has me reaching for your nightstand.” you returned. the slick sounds continued, obvious in the silence of conversation. 
“miss me that much, huh?”
“I can barely remember what you look like anymore. for all I know you’re just a robot talking to me over a computer speaker.” 
“I don’t think a robot could make you cum as hard as I do.” higuruma said. his breath was heavy, his voice as gruff and hollow as when he first woke up in the morning. “as often as I do.”
you reached for the blue vibrator you’d tossed aside earlier and pressed the power button, lifting it to the phone’s speaker so he could hear. “I dunno about that.” 
“don’t tease.” he said sternly, but you could hear the smile in his voice. 
now it was your turn to smile to yourself, putting your phone on speaker as you tapped into your photo gallery and scrolled through your hidden photos. you had ordered a few new pairs of lingerie and nightgowns, on higuruma’s card, as both a punishment and a reward for his many, many, many nights of hard work. “oh?” you said. “then I guess i’ll put away this new gift i got...”
“well now.” he said. you could hear the sound of fabric adjusting, the sound of metal jingling. “is that what those charges were? I was sure I didn’t buy anything at Le Petit Trou.”
you giggled. you knew he would like what you bought, the thigh high stockings he liked you to wear, liked to kiss your thighs wearing, liked you to leave on even after he had pulled off the rest of your clothes. the garters bit into your soft skin, leaving divots in the meat of your thighs, where he often laved his tongue across after. the panties themselves were pale white and creamy, near see through as they pulled taut across your hips and ass, the position you had taken the photo in just accentuating the tightness of the fit. “you look...incredible...” he breathed. “beautiful. I can’t believe you showed me.” every word was punctuated by a rough slapping sound, a rough groan. 
“I can’t wait to show you in person.” you said, feeling bold. “can’t wait for you to ruin them.” 
“oh I will.” he said. “that lace won’t survive the night. the hour. I’ll tear them off with my teeth.” you nodded, feeling the hazy pleasure in your belly swirl. at first you hadn’t expected to be so turned on by this, by just a simple vibrator and the baritone of his voice, but god you were. you felt like you could come soon, even though it had been barely a minute. 
“what would you do first?” you asked. “m-my bra or my panties?” 
“how could I choose?” he replied. the sounds on the other end of the phone were hot, wet, almost palpable despite the distance between you. “I love your tits and your pussy equally.” 
“oh, yeah?” you asked, circling your clit with the end of he vibrator, pressing and releasing the pressure every other moment. “aren’t you forgetting someone?” 
“how could I forget that juicy fuckin’ peach you have back there?” he laughed. “I can practically taste it now. first thing I’d do is sink my teeth into it and mark my territory.” 
“oh yeah?” you breathed, you could barely respond, barely think, of anything but pleasure. you moaned for him, breathy and sweet, and he groaned out in response, fist dragging up and down his cock. 
“maybe I won’t waste time with my teeth. maybe I’ll just give you my cock-” 
“please.” you sighed. “I w-want it so bad.” 
“fuck, you’re killing me here. I miss you so much.” he said. “I’d fuck you as hard as I did last new year’s, when we stayed at that hotel in the city. fuck, you were so hot with your tits pressed up against the glass, gagging on my cock where everyone in the city could see you. we should do that again, maybe go down to the restaurant this time. I’ll fuck you right on the dinner table so everyone can see how you take my cock.” 
he chuckled again, breath fanning out into the mic of the phone. you wanted to feel it against your skin as he kissed you, as he fucked you, your fingers automatically pressing down on your aching clit and feeling a jolt of overstimulation as a result.
“g-god hiromi-” you breathed, pleasure exploding behind your eyes like a cresting wave as you came. you moaned loud and unabashed, not caring if your neighbors heard you, not caring if anyone heard you. everyone knew your moans were his and his alone. 
“I love you, baby.” he breathed. “I’ll talk to you later-”  
everything came to a halt. “why didn’t you-” you began, confused. hadn’t he started all this? hadn’t he been the one to call you first? 
“isn’t it obvious?” hiromi asked. you tilted your head to the side, confused. had you cum so hard that you’d actually scrambled your brain this time?
“wha-”
the door creaked as it was pushed open and you gasped, jolted out of your post-orgasm bliss by a pang of fear. who could it be at this hour of night? was someone trying to break in? where was the switchblade you kept in your nightstand drawer?
“you didn’t think that was enough for me, did you?” higuruma asked, and you blinked, having forgotten for a moment that you had been speaking to him, had been so thoroughly seduced by him. the call dropped as fast as your stomach did, and the door flew open to reveal a familiar outline. 
“oh my god.” you breathed.
hiromi was already pulling off his tie, shoes and socks left at the door. his pants were undone and tight at the front, hanging off his slim hips as he walked closer. you practically melted into his touch as he caressed the side of your face with a big, warm palm, sinking your weight against him and knowing he’d be there to support it. 
he smiled at you, kissing you deeply and tossing away the phone that had still been hanging in your hand. “when I make you cry on my cock, I need to hear all those pretty little noises right from your mouth.”
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also posted on ao3 
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digitalfountains · 8 days ago
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Geenah Philander by Talya Brockmann
- Le Petit Trou, 2023
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martysimone · 2 years ago
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Le Petit Trou | Amour ‱ purple ruffled sheer tulle set + flocked hearts
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luegootravez · 7 months ago
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Léna Ballayre by © Lauren Spitznagel
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thefashionforwardfiles · 16 days ago
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Elle USA November 2024 issue||October 23 2024|Styled by Alex White|Photographed by Carin Backoff|
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Kylie Jenner wears a white tomate top by En Le Petit Trou
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elodiecsu · 8 months ago
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Ce matin nous déjeunons aprÚs avoir déposer les enfants.
Puis canapĂ© ou je m’allonge en mettant mes pieds sur tes jambes, tu es assis .
Tu masse pieds , jambes, cuisses, mes seins.
Te voilà sur moi , entre mes cuisses, ta bouche sur mon cou , une protubérance presse mon entrejambe.
Tu enlĂšves ton sweat-shirt, sors mes seins de mon soutif et les lĂšches.
Tes fesses sont précieuses dans mes mains et mon bassin gigote contre ton pantalon.
Tu sors ta verge par ta braguette, je n’ai pas le temp de la saisir que tu ecarte mon body et remonte ma robe .
Un missionnaire de pĂšre et mĂšre s’en suit puis affaler , jambe sur tes Ă©paules, ta verge est maintenant une queue large qui me fait couiner comme une amante .
Cette queue devient une bite affamĂ©e qui s’engouffre dans mon petit trou en me rappelant que tu dois te vider, telle est ton devoir de fĂ©conder.
Tu m’embrasse, referme ta braguette , ta verge et toi doivent aller en ville .
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ekman · 8 months ago
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Moi, la guerre, je l’ai faite, figurez-vous. Oui, on ne dirait pas en me voyant. Cet air de s’en foutre que j’affiche toujours du coin de mon Ɠil bleu, les gens se disent en le dĂ©couvrant que je dois ĂȘtre un fieffĂ© malin, peut-ĂȘtre mĂȘme un salaud, un abuseur, allez savoir.
Moi, je les emmerde tous. J’ai pas survĂ©cu Ă  la mitraille, Ă  la boue, aux Boches et aux rats pour subir leur sale gueule et baisser les yeux. Je les emmerde, je vous dis. Et dans des proportions que vous ne soupçonnez pas. Pas l’un d’eux ne trouvera grĂące Ă  mes yeux. Ni le bourgeois replet parti prier son Juif repenti Ă  l’église le dimanche, ni le tchĂ©kiste restĂ© Ă  encenser son grand Staline dans une rĂ©union de quartier. Les deux me font chier – et savez-vous pourquoi j’entretiens Ă  leur endroit une haine parfaitement Ă©galitaire ? Mais parce qu’ils sont jumeaux, sortis du mĂȘme ventre flasque de la RĂ©volution, de la mĂȘme fente puante, matrice qui dĂ©gueule son trop plein d’humanitĂ© fĂ©roce, foetus aux dents acĂ©rĂ©es, dĂ©voreurs de mamelle ! Boivent autant de sang que de lait, ces monstres absurdes. Des vraies dĂ©gueulasseries biologiques conçues pour anĂ©antir le monde beau et sauvage qui ne les a pas vu venir.
Ces affreux-lĂ , j’en ai croisĂ© sur le front. Jamais en premiĂšre ligne, trop couards pour ça. Toujours en retrait, juste ce qu’il faut. Se chiant dessus Ă  la premiĂšre dĂ©flagration, mĂȘme lointaine, mĂȘme tĂ©nue. TerrorisĂ©s Ă  l’idĂ©e d’une baĂŻonnette boche s’enfonçant dans leur sale bide tout gonflĂ© de haricots mal cuits et de gaz diaboliques. Le rouge et le calotin unis dans la mĂȘme pĂ©toche minable, incapables de transcender leur peur de mammifĂšre absurde, condamnĂ©s Ă  baisser la tĂȘte, Ă  lever les bras, Ă  Ă©carter leurs miches poisseuses de merde honteuse. Ah ils puaient ces deux-lĂ , faut me croire. Dans les abris, on les laissait pas rentrer ces ordures. “Allez les gars, soyez pas salauds, allez. Faites une place... Je boirais bien la moitiĂ© d’un quart de soupe... Allez
” Des cafards, des magouilleurs, arrangeurs, tricoteurs. Des enculĂ©s de frais. “Va chier avec ton quart, sale rat !”, que je leur gueulais. “Quand il fallait monter l’échelle tout Ă  l’heure, t’étais oĂč, hein, mon salaud ?” GĂ©nĂ©ralement, ils baissaient la tĂȘte ou mieux, ils se barraient. Partaient pleurnicher dans l’abri d’à-cĂŽtĂ©. Mendigoter un quignon ou une tige Ă  de bonnes Ăąmes qui ne les avaient pas vu s’affaler au signal de l’assaut. Les mĂȘmes tous les deux ! Le rouge et le calotin. Tout pareillement conjoints dans la terreur, taillĂ©s pour survivre Ă  tout, coĂ»te que coĂ»te, dussent-ils se faire cracher Ă  la gueule pour l’éternitĂ© des temps, se faire maudir par les agonisants, ceux dont la tripe s’étalait tout autour et qui mettaient pourtant tant de temps Ă  crever ! J’aurais jamais assez de toute ma vie pour les maudire, ces fils de salaud, ces petits rongeurs sans honneur, sans grandeur, sans rien !
Et allez ! Que croyez-vous ? Qu’on n’avait pas peur nous autres ? Qu’on ne pleurait pas en claquant des dents au milieu des Ă©clairs qui hurlaient la mort ? Que l’on se prenait pour des CroisĂ©s ou pour des Jean-sans-Peur ? Tu parles ! Dans toute cette apocalypse, nous n’étions plus rien ! Et c’est bien Ă  cause de cela qu’on se redressait et qu’on y allait. Parce que je vais vous dire, moi, l’idĂ©e de crever recroquevillĂ© comme un cafard, ça m’a toujours Ă©tĂ© insupportable. Si je dois y passer, ce sera debout, nom de Dieu. À ma gauche, j’avais Lepault Gaston, un garçon gentil comme tout qui voulait entrer dans la banque. À ma droite, j’avais Lefeuvre Martial, fils de paysan, au travail depuis ses treize ans, pĂšre de quatre marmots Ă  pas vingt-cinq. Un peu plus loin, il y avait notre lieutenant, un marquis avec un nom Ă  rallonge incroyable, qu’on appelait Duguesclin pour faire court. Eh bien vous le croirez ou pas, mais on est sortis de la tranchĂ©e tous les quatre comme un seul homme et moins de deux minutes plus tard, j’étais le seul en vie, coincĂ© dans un trou peu profond, avec un Ă©clat boche calĂ© dans la cuisse. Les autres Ă©taient partis en poussiĂšre, pulvĂ©risĂ©s par un obus fabriquĂ© avec soin par de rondelettes bouffeuses de saucisse, quelque part du cĂŽtĂ© de Cologne.
Alors ne venez pas me faire chier avec mon regard inquisiteur. Il fera toujours moins mal que le shrapnel, tas de cons. Si je vous attrape du coin de l’Ɠil... si je vous ajuste, pour tout dire, soyez heureux que ce ne soit pas entre deux rangĂ©es de barbelĂ©s avec, calĂ© dans la molletiĂšre, le beau couteau de chasse que mon oncle Albert gardait depuis Sedan.
J.-M. M.
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