#flog

[fuku-okinawa-amami]

21.7.3梅雨時のアナベルにカエルの団体様

[psychterminal]

[flogkaeruotoko]

ブログってどうやるんだ？

と勢いで始めてみたものの、何も分からない。

ここ日本人あんまり多くなさそうだし、ひっそりとブログをやってこうよ。

申し遅れました。カエル男です。🐸

大学生なんですよ？マジで。ニートじゃないんよ？

今日は火曜なんで普通に講義あったんですけどね。

サボっちまいました。はい。

許されますかね？

なるべくサボりたくはなかったんだけどね。

今日はそんなお話。

今日はびっくり。朝起きましたら7:50。

あさはやーい。（本来より10分早く起きただけ）

偉すぎる俺は朝から #スプラトゥーン3 をしてストレスを貯めたところで、朝の支度。今日��講義のノートも持って、充電器も持って、さぁ行くぞ！

昨日エディットした #平沢進 （ #核P-MODEL ）のDμ34=不死を聞きながらチャリをこぐ。

チャリをこぐ。チャリをこぐ。

本来であれば片道15分近くかかる道のりを8分で走り抜けた。

途中、バスにクラクションを鳴らされた。ワイ、半ギレ。

普通に車道端を走ってただけで「ﾋﾞｯ」ですよ。まぁ邪魔だってことなんだろうけどさ。交通ルール守ってんだから文句言うなって話。

んで、駅についてふと思い立つ。

ない！定期がない！

絶望。しょうがない…今日は切符買うか…

ない！財布がない！

終わった。帰ろう。帰るしかないもんね。早速家に進路を変え、日がやってくる方へ向かう。途中なんだかしんどくなってとぼとぼと徒歩。チャリを押す。

「すみません。ちょっとよろしいですかー？」

ー職質イベント発生ー

えっ？

「自転車チェックしますねー」

なんか番号とかチェックされるあれだ。

「大丈夫ですねー。なにか身分確認できるものありますか？」

ない。それを忘れたから今帰ってるんですけれども。

「ない？あ、あぁなるほど。じゃあ住所と、、学生さん？ですかね？大学名と学籍番号を…」

#埼玉県 〜市 〜の〜の〜です。大学は 〜大学です。学籍番号は〜。

「はい分かりましたー。いやー、この時間に若い人、今日は大学休みですかね？」

いや、あの、忘れまして。全部。

「え？あらー、それは大変ですね。じゃあまた往復ですか」

もう帰ります。

「あぁ、そうですか。お疲れ様ですね。」

あの、何かあったんですか？

「まぁ最近物騒ですからね。お気をつけてくださいねー」

声掛けてきたのそっちやろ。教えてくれや。

職質イベ終了。

リザルト

メンタル：ｰ20

疲労：+40

SAN値：ｰ1（1d6）

ゲロゲロ。

[peroes]

オシッコかけて飛んでった💦🐸

[anminsou]

[amsnoww]

Flog.

[mask131]

I needed this in my life

Don't ask me to explain, I thought of a pun and I drew it

[myanalogai]

What's up Dawg?

[leatherpearlslace]

[melvingaines]

Sunday School Live Stream - November 12, 2023

https://www.facebook.com/akronalliancefellowship/videos/308466335376764 Sunday school session with Asst. Pastor Melvin Gaines. John 19:1-15

[gladiatorcunt]

- A ROTTEN TREE BEARS ROTTEN FRUIT | I.

god loves you, but not enough to save you

cw: kinktober prompt (whipping/flogging), blasphemy, inaccurate religious practices, lyrical sadomasochism (more so sadism on his part), erotic religious imagery and references, this dynamic is so weird, implied (as in in my mind) bi reader and charlie, plus sized reader, reader’s chest referred to as ‘breasts’ & ‘tits’ and their crotch referred to as a ‘hole’ but they do have a seperate one other than their ass, pregnancy fantasy, vomit mention, don’t know shit about the show fuck you ryan, blood kink, interchangeable ‘charlie’ & ‘mayhew’ based on pov

do not translate, repost, or feed this work to ai |

kinktober 2024

“Shh, let me clean you up, Father.” You smile, so softly, he could snap your neck if he squeezed hard enough.

You run your nails over his back, trimmed to an appropriate length. Father Mayhew sighs the way Adam might’ve when Eve’s walls clenched around him, God never being more important than this bliss. You’re so devoted, so devout in your worship but he’s beginning to think that you cry out to a different God than he does. If you even believe in an invisible one anymore when you have a savior in the flesh.

“Thank you, dear. That’d be great.” The pulls are pulled from his lips like rotund wooden beads, as if he has no choice but to endure the stretch as they exit his body one by one.

You shuffle off the bed and kneel behind him, stroking your fingertips down his back like he’s a marble statue you just can’t help but reach out and touch. The opposite of Delilah cutting Samson’s hair, you only want to imbue him with your pure love from the inside out. Spooning milk and honey over the tender welts.

His eyelids crinkle as you kiss the nape of his neck, blotting your lips with rouge. There is no inch of his back left without, and when you arrive at the bigger gashes you lavish the cut with your tongue. Drinking his life away and cleaning him up like a good little whore, servicing the man becomes the only thing of importance to you. You dip the tip of your tongue in the recess of the deeper wounds, and caress his tensing abs from behind when he grits his teeth and traps a curse behind them. You only kitten lick him, but often he wishes you would get real dirty with it, caressing your tongue over his muscles in broad and messy swipes.

His scars from previous lashings glint in the low light of the candles surrounding you. You give them their just desserts of course, grateful pecks of attention and acknowledgement. Soothing his pain, that is the only excuse you have to encroach on the verge of breaking your vows. Father Mayhew gives you a purpose and stops your bleating with a heavy hand if you forget your place. Stern hand to raw and stinging flesh.

Sometimes there is no pillow when you kneel behind him.

The next step is that you turn around and face the wall after picking up the cattail whip off the bed and returning it to its rightful owner. You’ve already discarded your habit, no tunic, coif, or veil left on your person. They’re folded neatly beside you, only your rosary nestled in the embrace of your heaving breasts. Your peaks harden in the stuffy humid air, all the oxygen in the world confined to this small room.

He saddles up behind you, his sweaty chest so close to the flesh and contours of your back. Father Charlie breathes you in, taking whiffs of your debauched scent in between silent prayers. He never allows himself to be as forward as you are, his thread of control over his desire has not snapped yet. There are boundaries he can push, but lines he can never cross.

“Good lamb, God recognizes your penance and forgives your soul.” He whispers, dragging the strips of leather down your back until goosebumps rise to the surface.

When you least expect it, he strikes. You muffle a shout into the wall and Father Charlie’s cock jumps under his towel. Briefly he imagines slamming into your tempting body dry, with no preparation, making you sure you feel as much pain as possible. The way you’d wince with every step around the church, the begging in your puppy dog eyes when you’d take communion. How he could hold it above your head like a bone in the shape of a fractured cross, dangling just out of reach of your gorgeous mouth.

The devil gives him dreams of fucking your throat until you’re vomiting and hoarse.

Every droplet of bed peeking out from the cracks of your skin to say hello nourishes him. He shushes you when you’re unable to hold back your sounds, cooing when he notices you humping the air after the fifteenth hit. You just can’t help yourself, nerdy by nature and nurture.

You start soaking the pillow beneath you, imagining what he must look like. A man and his broad hulking body curling around you as he hurts you. Your hole suddenly feels so empty, you have a night of riding your pillow ahead of you, you just want to be good for him in all the ways you’re supposed to be.

As you let a demon of sex control your body, he spies a flash of a white lacy thong nestled between your plump ass cheeks. He knows that if you had also worn a towel, he would’ve hooked his fingers under the fabric and pulled it off. You don’t get to hide any part of yourself from your Father. And he knows he will have to give himself another lashing for those thoughts alone. Even the secret wedding he plans as he strokes his angry red cock, always edging himself, he’s afraid of what would happen if he lets go. How loud the iron gates would be when they creak open. Like the way he wants to spread your ass open and toy with the hidden puckered hole.

His words are in his actions, reopening your old wounds and bringing the warm leather across your back one last time, he hopes your blood soaks through the material. Staining it, the way you have already stained his heart. Father Charlie grins despite himself when you slump against the wall, sliding his bible-roughened hands over your love handles and sticks his pecs to your shoulders.

“You did lovely, today. The Lord thanks you, and I’m so proud of you, you know that?” His thick fingers brush along the bottoms of your tits, never going higher.

He wants to slap them, wrap the beads of your rosary around them until the flesh bulges, painting your nipples in a mix of both of your blood. Marking your souls irreversibly. Marriage of the spirit, a ritualistic wedding in the eyes of the beholder. You shiver like a mouse in front of a snake, and beads of precum fall from his cockhead.

Did Saint Teresa have these feelings when she had the vision of an angel piercing her heart with their golden spear? Did Saint Sebastian when he was pierced by those arrows under the order of the Emperor? Did David when he wrenched Goliath’s head back by his hair and bested him into humiliation? Did it compare to the covenant he formed with Jonathan?

He kisses your glittering scars in thanks and washes your blood away with his lips and tongue too. But unlike any other day in which you’ve done this, he stands up with a grunt and pulls you up with him. Father Mayhew falls backwards onto his bed and so you follow dutifully, and because the hold he has on your wrist is strong to the point of bruising. You lay your head over his heart and pant into his skin as he teases your plush thigh, tracing crosses into the chubby expanse of skin.

“No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.” He cajoles, walking on that burning tightrope with you.

He wonders if your cunt would be just as chubby, if you’ve ever thought about humping the organ bench, riper than the forbidden fruit, and he mentally catalogs an extra long session of repentance. To be fresh and clean again. Father Charlie will go through his sermons with his lighthearted tone and charming personality, desperate to hide that he’s thinking of plunging his tongue in your asshole. Sipping and slurping up your musk like it’s the only holy water he needs to live. Or entice you into eating his ass, you would love being able to serve him properly, no doubt.

To nourish you with his fragments, his vertebrae and viscera. The body and the blood. The teeth and the testicles.

He’ll sit in quiet contemplation in front of the pulpit, pouring wine over your body in his mind. Following the red trail with his tongue as it trickles down the valley of your chest and dips in and out the folds of your belly. He’ll leisurely open his mouth on a silent moan at the top of your mound, the hairs like yellowing blades of glades against his philtrum, in a perfect paradise there’d be blood there too. His own personal, pervertedly literal, red sea.

You’d look so beautiful, swollen and fat with a child growing in your womb. A shame that can never happen, but a blessing that no heretic of a man could snatch you up and take you away from him. Your flock is here, and the heavy crook of his staff is all you need to guide you back home when you go astray. Trapped in his thighs, molded by his hands, punctured into line with his cock.

[yuhitsujiya]

小さな来訪者。

6/6はひつじの日。そしてかえるの日