#mommy literature

[fortunawren]

IV. Sitas

Trigger Warning: Mommy Domme + Light Switch Erotica. Read at your own risk. 

Here's a secret about Mommy--sometimes she likes it when her sweetheart is just a little bit rough with her.

Now, he can't speak for all Mommies. Maybe some of them don't like it when their littles seize drops of power to use against them. But, his Mommy does. She likes brats. She likes teaching them how to behave, and rewarding them when they are exceptionally good. She says it's because good boys deserve to be rewarded, but another secret is that Mommy loves cock.

Especially his, or so he's told.

Still, he was slightly surprised when she told him about tonight's game. To be fair, this isn't usually how they play and he's not sure if his recent behavior warrants such a gift. To be honest, he's been a bit of a brat lately despite all of Mommy's gentle warnings. So, when she said that she was going to let him fuck her from behind, he didn't know what to think.

A full ten seconds passed before he even said anything, and even then, it was an "If you're sure, Mommy."

Which she was.

She's almost always sure.

And she makes such a pretty picture, too. Her knees are digging into her navy blue sheets while her freckled ass is perched in the air. Her orange robe is forgotten on the floor, and lucky him, she wasn't wearing anything under it.

Mommy wiggles her hips as he approaches, cock in hand. The small shift in her hips forces a wayward thought in his head about spanking her. His dick practically twitches with the force of the idea. He's never seen what his handprint would look like against her fair skin.

But that's not tonight's game.

She wiggles her hips again, almost encouraging his naughty idea. He can't help but smile. Perhaps Mommy loves brats so much because she's one herself.

All he's really certain of is the heaviness of his cock in his hand. Each stroke is pure torture. He wants so much to take what's right in front of him. What's worse is knowing how good she feels when she's squeezing the life out of him. It's almost enough to drive a groan from his throat.

But he's not allowed to touch her.

Not yet.

He has to wait for her permission.

Still, just the thought of entering her---or again, the thought of painting her pretty skin red, makes him swell. The sound of his fist moving up and down his length is the only noise in the room beside the crackling of two wood-wick candles meant to set the mood.

He tries to focus on the subtle popping of the candle instead of the sight in front of him, or the sound of him jacking himself off because even that might be enough to send him over the brink. He tries to think about the scents that he's getting; jasmine for one, and maybe a bit of manufactured leather?

"That's right," Mommy says as if she knows that his thoughts are starting to wander to get away from the intensity, "Get hard for Mommy, Sweatheart. I need you to get nice and big--all swollen for me so you can fuck me."

The whole time she's being an utter minx with her words, she's snaking her arm down her body so her fingers can rub at her clit. He has to close his eyes---the sight is too great. Otherwise, he'll cum right there and the whole game will be over.

She releases a soft little moan, but she might as well have screamed it. The moment his ears consume the sound, it runs through his body like static. All he can truly focus on is the undeniable knowledge that she's going to be wet. Maybe even soaked.

He knows it.

As gorgeous as the siren song of her pleasuring herself is, he doesn't dare open his eyes. He's vindicated in his logic when he hears her moan again, this time louder. With it, she says something like, "Feels so good" but most of her words are muffled as if she has her face right in the mattress.

Fuck me, he thinks because now he has to know. He has to see if she's got her face in the mattress already.

It takes one quick and benign pep talk before he manages to open his eyes. Whatever fantasy he'd constructed in his head quickly disassembles in favor of the real thing. Unfortunately, it turns out to be a far more enthralling sight.

Mommy's forehead is nestled in the curve of her elbow. Her little fingers have her poor clit trapped, and she's moving them in tight, eager circles as if she's trying to push herself over as fast as she can. He's downright enchanted with the sight.

And amazed with his strength.

He tries to work his erection at the same pace as her. The only mercy he shows himself is the slight loosening of his grip, but it proves too much. Entirely too fucking much.

He's never going to last. She's going to kill him.

Mommy stops playing with her clit, and his heart skips a beat. His mind plays a gentle chorus of *finally. But she's a cruel mistress, really, because her fingers only rise to her tight entrance. She dips one finger in, humming in the back of her throat.

Then she's pulling it out with a slick sound.

Fuck.

He'd been right. She's absolutely soaked.

Mommy raises and looks over her shoulder at him with a damning little smirk. Her cheeks are pink, but her eyes are hungry. Starving, even. It's enough to make him swallow, but she's not even looking at his face. Her eyes are zeroed in on his dick. She's inspecting it. Making sure that he's ready. She bites her lip and then smiles wider.

Softly, she says, "I think you're ready, don't you?" Before he can answer, she adds a pitched, "Are you ready to fuck Mommy?"

"Yes," He nearly whines. He's of enough sense to hastily correct, "Yes, Mommy. I'm ready."

She looks away from him, easing back down. His eyes trace the movement, nearly bulging when the globes of her ass spread. He finds that he likes her like this, but knows he will like it much more when he's buried to the root.

But then she's slipping two fingers into her entrance, dipping them in so, so slowly. Her pussy eagerly accommodates. She breathes out an, "Oh" that makes him want to die. He has to bite back a groan, but in that, he's unsuccessful.

Truthfully, it could be worse.

He could be releasing ropes all over her back right now unapologetically.

Mommy pants, "Oh, that's so good."

"Mommy," He doesn't mean for it to come out--his little plea. He had no intention of begging. He didn't even think he would have to given how she'd approached him. Hell, she'd answered the door in just her robe.

"I know, baby," She coos, "I know. Just a little bit longer."

Kill me.

The voice in the back of his head taunts. It says that he should've known better. It hasn't been this easy since the honeymoon phase when they couldn't get enough of each other--when they were still learning each other and everything was so very new.

Sentimentality does a lot to relieve the ache. He wants to brag. He wants to say something along the lines of, "See, Mommy. I can control myself." but that would most likely end terribly and he probably wouldn't be able to cum for a whole week. And she'd probably call him over every single day just to do something hell-raising evil like making out while she ground down on him like they were horny teenagers just to send him home before 7 pm.

She's subtly evil regarding her psychological schemes.

"Just a couple more minutes," She pants into her arm, "Fuck. You can wait, right?"

No, not really. He wants to say, but he regains only in memory of the promise she made him in the beginning---that she wants to give him what he wants. More than anything. And, in her own way, Mommy always gives him the things that he wants. Spoiling brings her nearly as much joy as taming does.

So, he knows that eventually, she'll let him sink into her wet cunt, and eventually, he will fuck her right into the mattress like she said he could.

Just a couple more minutes. Just a couple more minutes. Just a couple more minutes.

It's faith in her promise that allows him to croak, "Yes, Mommy, I can wait."

"That's good, baby," She pumps her fingers in her pussy and his jaw unhinges. His mouth is nearly watering, and he knows that if he's not careful, he's going to start leaking. He thinks about stopping, but she knows that she'll hear it the moment that she does, and that might delay this whole thing.

*Just one more minute,*he comforts himself, just one more lousy fucking minute.

It's a shallow angle. Mommy's not hitting any of her favorite spots. All she's effectively doing is stretching out the first inch or so for her sweetheart. But he can see the highlights of arousal starting to drop down her fingers in the candlelight. It's such a captivating sight, but he doesn't stop stroking---although he really wishes he could.

Heat rises up his body starting at the base of his cock. All he can do is watch as she starts to rock back against her fingers, deliberately sinking them in further without any resistance. She groans, "Yes."

He starts to reconsider his stance on spanking.

"You know--"

She stops talking.

Mommy stops talking so she can fuck her own fingers right in front of him. He doesn't know if it's the wetness sliding down her fingers, or the slick metronome of her fingers thrusting into her pussy that makes him say, "Mommy, please."

"Fuck," She whimpers, and then she says, "You know Mommy's doing this all for you. I have to get ready for you. You wouldn't want to hurt Mommy with your thick cock would you?"

He would.

Just a little.

But instead, he says almost innocently, "No, Mommy."

She slips her fingers in and out of her cunt thirteen more times--each proving to be a greater reflection of her training. He hadn't known he could resist to this extent, especially when given something so tempting.

He's tempted to pull her arm behind her back and shove his cock into her. It's an almost bowing thought and one that takes him completely by surprise for the utter roughness of it, but there's a fire in his stomach and he knows she'd take it so well. He channels the fragments of the vision into his next words, "Please stretch your pussy for me, Mommy."

It's not directly bratty. Darker, than anything. Almost like a warning---and just a little out of character. Excitedly, and most hornily, he accepts that this is something new for them.

"Okay, baby," She pants nicely, "Just a bit more time, then. Since you want it so bad."

He looks down at his cock almost apologetically. He's starting to leak, and he'd let impulse take him when he swore he was going to behave. He clenches his jaw and closes his eyes again. He tries to maintain the pace and then wonders if he could slowly change his strokes to something more forgiving without her noticing.

Another thought crosses his mind; he could drop to his knees right now and lick up the mess she's made of herself. He'd press his tongue against her abused and neglected clit and wouldn't let up until she was crying.

But that's another game for another time--or maybe the follow-up to him filling her up with so much cum that it's dripping down her thighs.

Just the thought has him pulsing.

Mommy sucks in two breaths before she removes her fingers. The sound her pussy makes as they exit will probably haunt his daydreams during the most inopportune times.

"Okay," His mind nearly blanks with her concession, but he does manage to open his eyes, "Now, you have to listen, okay?"

Quickly--too quickly for sanity--he agrees, "Okay."

Truly, he means anything.

"You have to be slow, okay?" She moves to look over her shoulder at him, "You have to be gentle."

There's a sternness in how she looks at him.

"Okay, Mommy," He agrees as sincerely as possible, "I'll be gentle."

"That's a good boy," She grins at him---one of her truly happy smiles. He wants to kiss her, and she thinks that she would find that very endearing but the absolute pain in his dick prevents him from being that sweet. Mommy settles down low into a similar position as before, "Put your cock in me, sweetheart. Please."

He accepted some time ago she'd probably be his cause of death. He feels the start of a heart attack for sure.

But she's not finished.

"Mommy needs it bad."

He smirks.

He can't help it.

He releases his cock, finding purchase on her hip instead. He tugs her back just a little and she scoffs. He leans down and kisses her back, and says, "Sorry, Mommy."

His other hand lines his cock up with the seam of her pussy. He doesn't resist the urge to drag the tip of it across her clit, and she flinches involuntarily with the pleasure, "Don't be a tease."

He wants to bark out a laugh but he resists.

Still, he doesn't waste her time. He dips in so slowly he thinks he might die--proving to them both that he can be immensely gentle. It's an excruciating venture. The first press is all wet heat, and then maddening friction. Tight but easily pliant walls part for him at a pace that has him pondering buying her an old clock just so he could time the seconds.

He moves his hips slowly. Most controlled.

It dawns on him that this is probably the best behaved he's been in some time, and somehow Mommy is so prone beneath him. Each time he pulls out in an attempt to keep his cock coated with her arousal, she releases the softest little whimpers, urging him on with an even softer, "Put it back in."

Still, it's not long until she's swallowed him whole. His hips press against her back as he grinds gently against her, head dropping to bestow even softer kisses against her back.

"Thank you, darling," She says sweetly.

And fuck him, he knows that tone entirely too well. He knows that nothing good for his health ever comes from that voice.

"Now," She begins, and he groans. Mommy starts again, sterner, "Now, don't move or we'll have to stop. Do you understand?"

No. No. No.

It takes him a moment to respond.

"Okay?"

She checks in, and he swallows, looking down to where their bodies are joined.

"Yes, Mommy."

All he can think somewhere in the depths of his mind is that he's wearing her like a sleeve and she doesn't want him to move? This is madness. She's madness.

Mommy moves her hand down her body again---this time her fingers graze his swollen skin before she goes for her clit again. The death grunt he let out is nearly embarrassing.

"You feel so good," She whines, tightening around her as she rubs herself, "You fill Mommy up so good."

"I'm trying," His building resentment with this whole trap boils.

"Don't be bad," Mommy says, "You know what happens when you're bad."

She squeezes down on his cock while she says it. It's her favorite little trick and it's almost horrid how it'd will him into compliance. The sounds that escape her are also mind-altering. Better than LSD.

He's not exactly sure he's meant to win this game.

But he wants to.

"So good," She hums, "You're so good to let Mommy use you like this."

To buy back some favor, he leans down and kisses her skin again, "Thank you, Mommy." His kisses bring forth a new angle that has her springing forward. The smile that spreads across his lips, and against her skin does nothing to soften her intentions. He tries to remedy it, "Thank you for using me."

But it's too late.

Mommy carefully leans forward, pulling away from him. He whines. Cruelly, she listens to him and sinks back down all the way. The whole thing has him looking up at the ceiling.

"Fuck," She breathes as she does it again. And then again, and again. His eyes almost roll into the back of his head, and it's with great effort that they don't. She adds, "You're perfect."

That alone should've been the end of him. Perhaps all her training is paying off because he manages to lock his jaw instead of cumming.

She speeds up, and with her, quicker pace comes the mere sound of how wet she is. His eyes keep fighting the good fight--and maybe he would have let them win but he quickly finds reprieve in the sight of her greedily taking him for all he's worth over and over again with her little moans, and ohs and yeses.

And he knows this is what she wanted most. Him, right here, at her disposal. Her heavy, throaty sounds are the only indication he has before she falls forward. He has no choice but to dig his fingers into her hips to her in place.

"Thanks, Sweetheart," Her pace makes her reckless, and he knows that she's getting close by the way her words break, "Such a--you're such a good boy. You have such a nice cock, too. Say it's mine."

Her fingers move recklessly, her hand sometimes meeting his cock in her efforts.

His teeth are going to crack.

"Do you want to make Mommy come?"

"Yes," He says, "More than anything. I need you to cum on my cock, Mommy."

Her next words are breathy, "Good. Good," there's a long pause, "Then Mommy needs you to fuck her. I need you to be sweet--"

Sweet?

"--and slow, okay? Pull all the way out and push all the way back in. Slow."

He can do that.

He focuses on that word. Slow. And he's very slow in the way his hips rock against her. It's almost delirium in the sense that if she asked him for his social security number and bank security question responses, he'd probably give them to her without missing a beat.

But the thing is, Mommy starts rocking again and she's not at all sweet or slow about it. More like feral.

The room is overcome with the wet slap of skin. The candles no longer a constant in his ears. She moans, "Yes, just like that."

And barely a breath passes before she's adding, "You're fucking Mommy just right. The best."

She squeezes him again, and the fire is spreading through him again. It reaches his cheeks and threatens to take him. He knows that he doesn't have much longer.

She cries out, "Oh, yes. Fuck."

Followed by a long, suffocated whine. She lifts up her head for the sheer purpose of saying, "Mommy's going to cum, baby. I'm going to come on your cock."

"Please," He says. He begs, "Please, Mommy."

"Don't cum," She adds almost as a mumble into the bed, "I'm not finished with you."

A few sloppy thrusts later, he feels her tightening around him and it's not one of her tricks.

"Are you close, Mommy?" He can't help but ask. Really, he's just checking on her.

"Yes, baby. So close."

She's truly gone.

He leans back down and she curses. He whispers as he mouths at whatever he can reach, "Cum for me, Mommy. I need it. I need to feel you break. Please."

Her fingers graze his cock again and he moans. It's seconds later that she tenses, the nearest she's ever gotten to a scream falling from her lips. Her breathing is harsh in the next few moments, but his kisses are plenty. Overkill, maybe.

"Good."

That's all she says for the first few moments, "That's good, sweetheart. So good for me. Now, take Mommy."

Finally.

"Give me another."

"And then I can cum?" He asks because he has to know. He has to have a goal. There's a smile in her response.

"Yes, then you can cum."

She's ridden him senseless, and they've done missionary enough times that he knows how to fuck her. He knows how to make her cum fast, and she really needs her to cum fast. Mommy's intensely responsive, especially when you're whispering the right things in her ear. His hand goes to her breast, first as a soft touch, but then as something with a little more pressure when he gets to her hard nipples.

"Poor Mommy."

"That's your last warning," She says this as sweet as syrup. The queen of passive-aggressiveness.

But moves his hips a little faster and then circles her nipple with his fingers. He can't pinpoint a time in his head that she's been this wet, but that could simply be ego.

"More," She moans. A simple enough plea. But it quickly becomes a string of, "Oh. Oh, fuck. Just like that."

"Yeah, Mommy?" He can't resist when she sounds so overwhelmed, "Just like that?"

Uh-huh.

He's pretty sure he's winning the game.

He feels her squeezing down and grabs her hips--abandoning her poor nipple. She growls, actually growls. But the shallower, more controlled thrusts soon have her moaning once again so he thinks he's in the clear on that one. He's not exactly slow, but he's not ridiculously quick either. He knows that this comes down to friction more than anything.

He finds the spot. He knows he does because she cries, "Yes."

"Right there, Mommy?"

"Yes."

His Mommy sounds broken.

"Are you going to cum again?" He's glad she can't see his face. She wouldn't be pleased with his utter smugness.

"Yeah," She sniffles, "Yeah. You're going to make me cum. Please, Sweetheart. A little faster."

"Of course, Mommy." It's damn near angelic the way he says it.

He complies eagerly with her request.

"Don't cum," She says, "Please don't cum."

He's going to have to make a dentist appointment after this weekend. Her next moan gets stuck in her throat. She clamps down on him and it's difficult not to just let go. He wants to. He needs to but she asked so sweetly. So nicely. He can't disappoint her.

She starts moving against him again and says, "It's almost your turn."

Which, in his opinion, is a fucked up thing to say to someone on the near brink of explosion. He closes his eyes again.

And the demoness has the audacity to say, "You're going to make Mommy cum twice, Sweetheart. What a good boy."

Bitch.

That's his honest thought.

Then, she's cumming, again. Squeezing the life out of him in the hottest, wettest grip. He's going to buy her oranges from the farmer's market or some shit. He doesn't know.

But then he is seized by the realization that it is his turn. Despite the pain in his jaw, he manages to stay still long enough for her to start moving against him again. She coos, "Okay."

"You've been so good at making Mommy cum," He can tell that she is smiling from her almost lazy position, "Why don't you cum now? Hmm?" He looks down at where their bodies are joined and starts moving again in quick friction, "Yes. Use Mommy."

"Fuck," He says this time.

"Would that make you happy?" She asks, "You know Mommy would let you do anything if it made you happy, right?"

"Yes, Mommy."

Once given permission, it doesn't take him long to get there. Freedom runs through him as he empties himself into her sloppy, very well-used cunt. He pulls out of her for the sheer visual of it and the sight of their combined body fluids dripping off him doesn't disappoint.

He finds himself falling against her, kissing the back of her head. Then mouthing at her back. He can tell when she starts to come to and piece together all the things she let him get away with while they were in the throes of it.

So, he smiles, "I think Mommy deserves a present for being so creative and I have the perfect one in mind."

[mole-lesbian]

Buck × my favourite quotes

Evan Sanders// Parts of Me Never Left That House, Mada Hayyas

[muskaanayesha]

I am the eldest daughter, which is to say that I am a sponge that absorbs all the trauma of the household. Life is spilt milk and I am a kitchen cloth burnt at the edges. I am falling apart at the corners, threads coming away, rips and ripples like I am torn and trembling in an ocean of nothingness. I am the eldest daughter, which is to say that I emphasize with everyone. The love of my life marries someone else, and I find myself hoping that he loves her the same. My brother wishes death upon me and I toss and turn in my sleep over the tears I saw in his eyes. Life is an accidental fire and I am water. I attempt to stop a tragedy I did not start, to go blindly into a catastrophe that I cannot halt. I am the eldest daughter, which is to say that I am silent in my needs. My father asks me what I'd like to eat and I say that I am not hungry. I will chew on my guilt and swallow my pride before I even think of asking for anything. I buy myself a sweet and nothing tastes as bitter as it. Life is a metaphor for debt and I am drowning in the desire to be as insignificant as possible. I demand nothing and nothing demands me.

[ikarust]

i would die just to know if my mother will cry at my deathbed or spit on it. i would die just to know if my mother loves me at all.  (mine)

[yourgirlfoe]

hold me hostage, hold me accountable, hold me down, just hold me for fucks sake.

[jojo-the-bird]

It’s just I want to do this right. I don’t want you to feel like an unfinished project like my mother made me out to be. I want you to feel whole, to be loved and wanted without having to starve for it.

[ikarust]

i talk about tearing flesh from an arm with my teeth and you stare at me in horror like you haven't tasted blood before. i talk about being crushed like a small animal on a fast lane and you ask me how it's humanly possible of me to cling to the stone of the sidewalk the way i do. my mother could skin her hands at the sink and it would still not rid her from the truth that is that she has fed me her body and that she is convict to the manslaughter of her child.

quick question: how does one write about their mother without mentioning their mother? mine is a fortune teller. she tells me in the dead of the night while i am on the kitchen floor with the boning knife in one hand and and a towel in the other that i will never be loved right. that i will never find real love. that i will always suffer if i look for it.

mother knows best.

she tells me she destroyed herself for me and that i am selfish and cruel for not destroying myself for her. she begs me to be beautiful. she begs me to be the daughter she wanted to have. my friend tells me on the swing on a beautiful springtime evening that i am selfish and cruel for devouring every little piece of every damn thing that has ever tasted like love to me. and when i go home in the evening, my mother looks at me like she did the night she told me she wishes she'd killed me when i was a child. i tell everyone i am starving. my mother tells me she told me so.

i stare at the red in the ball of spit i hawked onto the bathroom floor. i retouch the scars on my thighs. i hack away at my hair with the big crafting scissors. i pray to god that i will wake up tomorrow beautiful and loveable. i wake up the same way. my mother tells me to never come back when i step out to leave for work. i tell her i am trying my best but nothing is working. she tells me she told me so. she tells me she's glad to see me in pain because i deserve it.

maybe i do deserve it.

i visit a clothing store and step into the fitting room just to see the way i am reflected back and forth in the front-and-back mirrors. i look and i see a morbid, mangled ruin the greatest what-could-have-been of all time. and by that i mean, i see a million possibilities in one. all the girls i could have been. and at the very center, where the image gets so small it's blurry and barely visible maybe i am beautiful. maybe i am loveable. maybe i find real love and maybe i don't suffer for it.

maybe i am the daughter my mother wanted.

[corralinesage]

Portrait of a wounded heart (1/8)

Summary:

You attend a live figure drawing class with the intention of falling in love with your favorite hobby again, instead you set your sights on something entirely different.

Lesbian fall romance for those in need ;)

‼️This work has been posted to ao3 as well and you can find the complete book there if you don’t wanna wait for the updates here!

18+ toward the end, read at your own risk⚠️

CHAPTER 1 Obsession, digression

You had been putting off signing up for a live figure drawing course for the entirety of your summer break when you had had all the time in the world to really get into studying anatomy with various different mediums, but inspiration and motivation had been very sparse for longer than just a few weeks or months. You didn’t really care anymore. You had lost what was perhaps the most important part of creating, you’d lost your passion toward art, the very same passion that you had kept alive since childhood. You knew you should’ve kept practicing, should’ve put more effort, more love, into the part of your life that kept you mentally nourished, but you just couldn’t seem to get over the artistic block that held you back. So, as a result you had made the decision to take part in a quick art course at your university to really push yourself out of your comfort zone. It might have either been the best or the worst idea you had had in a while, but there was no telling until you would enter the classroom and get to work.

You heard a loud honk through your earbuds, something that seemed to be more than frequent during rush hour, the sound blending in with the music that you were blasting into your mind to keep it quiet as you hurried across the street in case the honk was directed at you specifically. You tossed your empty takeout cup of coffee into the nearest bin you could find, tugging your coat tighter around you to shield yourself from the aggressive wind that made you shiver violently as you walked down the dark and busy street to find the university building that offered night classes to anyone who paid an excessive amount of money. You couldn’t really tell why you had decided to spend so much on a month-long course, but you could no longer withdraw your payment which left you no other choice but to go.

The door to the building you were heading for opened, a tall woman stepping outside, scrunching her nose at the humidity in the air, her hair dancing in the wind as she walked down the steps and disappeared out of your sight. You pulled on the handle of that same door, finding yourself inside an ancient building that had a rather striking, old-fashioned interior, the academic decor of bookshelves and plaster statues gaining your attention immediately. You had never been inside it before because your studies were mostly located on the opposite side of campus, but you managed to locate your classroom with only mild difficulty, feeling nervous butterflies in your abdomen, the odd sensation fluttering through you in waves of discomfort. You kind of wanted to leave, backtracking in your plans of reawakening the creative part of your mind. You could bring it back to life in the comfort of your own bedroom, the easels and assortments of charcoal pieces suddenly feeling more than intimidating by the minute as other artists slowly filled the room with their presence. None of them had even touched a single pencil or a piece of paper, yet you felt intimidated, like you had already failed before even getting the chance to prove your skills. You bit the inside of your lip, fiddling with a raw piece of coal, unintentionally staining your fingers black with the unrefined drawing tool. You felt like you couldn’t draw at all, like you had been shoved into a room filled with Michelangelos and Van Gohs who would all notice your incompetence before you had even been assigned a task.

Your anxiety flattened your mood rather effectively, the teacher’s words going right past you as she introduced herself, telling the class about her history with the university. You briefly wondered if you should have paid more attention to her because you were paying to be there after all, but you failed to keep your ears open and eyes on her, so you began to shade in the corner of the paper with no further purpose than to kill time, patiently waiting for the teacher to give you something to do. She rambled on for quite a while before asking the class to draw a quick five-minute sketch from memory of a person golfing, reminding everyone to focus on the line of action that often defined movement in drawings. You hated the prompt. You had never drawn a person golfing because nobody wanted to see that. Golf? Golf was for old people, but you began to draw random strokes on the paper anyway without even knowing what pose you were going for. You tried to see a golfing person through your mind’s eye, but apparently that part of your brain was out of use. You just couldn’t figure it out, the time limit only adding on to the pressure you felt.

You came into the conclusion that the exercise sucked. You stared at your sketch of a lanky golfer holding up a golf club, deciding that the figure was unintelligible and looked stiff in its unnatural position. You wanted to rip the paper into shreds but allowed the teacher to give you a second prompt without you making a scene in the corner of the large classroom. You hated that you had no way of finding references for what you were drawing, but you guessed it to be some sort of teaching method that would allow you to see your faulty way of thinking, as well as encourage you to actually learn anatomy that would eventually grant you the skill of drawing from memory. The subsequent prompt the teacher gave you went in from one ear and came right out the other, leaving you to ponder what it had been for the next five minutes while others sketched said figure. You pretended to do something with your easel and piece of lead to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the enthusiastic students as they worked on their sketches. With no prompt to follow, you zoned out completely, your eyes falling out of focus, freezing you into place as you sat still on your small stool. You barely even registered the teacher’s timer going off somewhere in the background, your body remaining in the same position for the next fifteen minutes as the teacher explained the meaning behind the first exercise and moved on to introducing a second one. Your mind was empty and full at the same time. You were stuck, stuck both physically and mentally, a sense of despair clawing at your chest for the wasted opportunity. You should have been happy, excited, eager to learn more, eager to give yourself what you needed, but you just couldn’t. You were too overwhelmed, too nervous to even give your creative side a chance, so you just sat, staring ahead. What finally drew you out of your troubled mind was the plain door to your left that opened suddenly, the gentle sound alerting you of an entering presence that caught you completely off guard in the state of comfort that you had found in the lonely corner of the classroom. You watched as a red-headed woman wearing a white robe slipped through the door. She gave you a polite smile as she shut the door behind her, walking over to the teacher who had a bright smile on her face.

“Here’s your model”, she announced in that overly sweet tone of hers, clearly ecstatic about the exercise. There was something about the way she spoke that made you not want to listen to a single word she said, but the remarkably beautiful woman who she was introducing to everyone seemed to be enough to hold your attention. “I want to go over the appropriate etiquette one more time so that there is no confusion”, the teacher said a bit more sternly. “There will be no photographing the model. There’ll be no touching, no talking, no commenting on appearances. Her safety and comfort come first which means you’re not allowed to make any kind of contact with her unless she initiates it”, the teacher reiterated, your eyes lingering on the model’s soft features, her striking red hair styled into loose curls that reached past her shoulders. “If I see so much as a glimpse of a phone or some other photographing device you’ll be thrown out of class and charged a fine. And finally –you would think this goes without saying, but apparently not– you’re not allowed to ask her out on a date or ask for her phone number. She is here to model and that is it”, the teacher asserted, brushing her hand down the model’s back, discreetly guiding her toward the center of the room where a tall stool stood. “Now… shall we get started?”

The model exuded confidence, she knew what she was doing, how to act, her captivating exterior letting you know that she had posed more than a couple of times before. She dropped her gown to the floor, your eyes suddenly nailed to your fresh sheet of paper. You couldn’t look at her, it felt too disrespectful. You couldn’t understand why because you’d seen naked women before, you had seen multiple naked people in your lifetime, yet suddenly it made your cheeks heat from embarrassment, your stomach swarming with butterflies. She was too pretty to be looked at, too enchanting, but deep down you knew you were beyond curious. You wanted to see more of her beauty, suddenly reminded of why you always gravitated toward figure studies specifically, and why you had chosen the course in the first place. You loved anatomy, and more explicitly female anatomy. You treated the female physique with a certain reverence, appreciative of both its capabilities as well as aesthetics. You felt a spark of excitement within you, allowing yourself to be intrigued by what was to come, but you also knew that it wasn’t just the artist in you that wanted to see her, wanted to witness the extent of her charming looks. You felt like everyone was looking at you, judging you for exhibiting homosexual tendencies. You shut your eyes, wincing at your reeling mind before gathering yourself, preparing to take a look at your subject as the teacher gave some more insight on the exercise.

“I want you to draw her in ten seconds, and ten seconds exactly, no more, no less. You’re going to produce me a loose sketch. Make it as loose and wild as possible, but make sure it still lets the viewer know that the subject is human. Utilize light strokes, curves and circles. Remember, the human body has no straight lines. There’s always a slight curve”, the teacher instructed, walking back and forth in the classroom, observing everyone to make sure no one was falling behind. You picked up an HB-lead pencil, whittling the tip with a utility knife to get your desired lead sharpness for drawing. “Ready?” You heard the teacher’s voice, preparing yourself to take a look at your model. So what, she was pretty? You drew pretty people all the time. “Three, two, one, go!” The teacher cheered with so much enthusiasm it sounded like she was commentating a sports event.

You peeked your head from behind the board propped up on the easel, your eyes landing on your model only to find her staring right back at you. Holy fuck. Your face flushed. Out of all the directions she could have been looking at she had chosen yours. She sat on the stool, her right foot supported by the beam that connected the legs of the chair at the bottom, left foot up on the edge of the seat. Her arms hugged her bent leg loosely, the position hiding her bare breasts from most angles. Her head was slightly tilted to the side to give her pose a sense of casualness, her natural color-palette and dominating presence begging for you to find any kind of assortment of pigments that you could utilize to replicate the soft hues of her complexion. There was no other way to capture her beauty, her poise, her hair, her skin, her eyes, her lips. You just stared at her, unable to move as the sound of charcoal on paper filled the room, the rest of the students putting admirable effort into their sketches, whereas you just stared. You could not pull your eyes away, you simply could not, the woman holding your gaze with impressive consistency. Her eyes were so intense, so green and warm even though the shade of green was on the cooler side. She had a mole on her cheek and a slight pout to her lips, the very last seconds of your time spent on observing the gorgeous shape of her round nose.

“Time!”

The corner of the woman’s mouth quirked up in a small smirk as your eyes widened. There was not a single line on your paper, not one, not even an accidental smudge of lead, and she knew it. She had seen you stare at her for every single second of the assigned time. You pulled back, forcing yourself to take a glance at the teacher who was looking over everyone’s work. Shit. You gripped your pencil, quickly drawing an oval shape to represent the model’s bent up leg, drawing a messy circle for her head, and a couple loose lines for the rest of her limbs. It was poor, but it wasn’t supposed to be good anyway, your hand leaving the paper when your teacher walked to your side, eyeing your plain sketch.

“Good job everyone!” She congratulated rather vaguely, moving back to the middle of the class where the students could see her. “I want you to draw the same pose again, but this time I’m giving you thirty seconds. Make it more detailed, take it a step further. You’ll be surprised by how much the extra twenty seconds will affect your work”, she said encouragingly, glancing down at the timer in her hand. “Is everyone ready?” After receiving affirmative nods and a couple verbal responses she pressed the button to start the timer again. “Go!”

Your gaze returned to the model, her eyes still on you. It was ridiculous. Why did she have to look at you? You were going to get nothing done in a class you paid a fortune to be in. You sighed in defeat, allowing your eyes to drop down to her body, trying your best to keep your cool as you studied her toned legs for a moment before going back to your sheet of paper. You reproduced the ten-second sketch, defining the shapes a little more, pulling back a bit to place your pencil in front of you, measuring the length of her limbs by looking at her through your dominant eye only to get accurate proportions. Once you got the sketch going and found a way to direct your attention to the sheet of paper, drawing became significantly easier, allowing you to get over your initial feeling of being flustered, but when the chair and limbs were done and you moved on to her torso and head, you felt your mind blank again. There she was, looking at you, staring at you with those steadfast eyes, unmoving like a carefully chiseled marble statue. Something made her unique, made her different from the other people you had drawn in your lifetime. She was so incredibly captivating that you felt like it couldn’t possibly be replicated through any art medium. You were positive that not even the highest quality camera could capture her energy, her entity, quite right.

You spent more time looking than drawing, but you didn’t mind it in the slightest, and neither did your teacher as long as you were drawing something and putting at least a bit of effort into it. You continued the exercise, the teacher increasing the time limit with each round, the model’s pose remaining the same for the rest of the two-hour class. You were sure you could have drawn her in your dreams from how many sketches you had made of her, but you didn’t feel satisfied. You wanted to be able to capture her perfectly, you wanted a fresh sheet of paper and thirty hours to create a piece of art that would match her regal composure. She deserved more than messy lines and quick sketches. She deserved better materials. She deserved a canvas, the richest paints you could find, an atelier with the most perfect natural lighting. She deserved a real artist, someone who could do justice to her beauty.

You felt like you couldn’t get a single sketch right. Objectively they were good, and there was nothing wrong with them, but to you they didn’t feel right. Time and time again you failed to bring out that same sense of awe and admiration that she awoke in you when you looked at her. Your sketches were flat, void of the thrill you felt whenever your eyes locked with hers. You weren’t sure if you were even skilled enough to capture such a feeling, but you were willing to try, vehemently sketching away every single time your teacher set a new timer for the next round. It bothered you that you felt rushed by the time limit. You wanted to draw in peace, constantly getting fixated on different details on her body or face. You couldn’t focus on her as a whole because every small curve and arch of her body demanded your undivided attention. You couldn’t just look over the small freckle on her calf, or the ivory of her thighs, or her auburn curls, or the purple shade of her nail beds as she slowly grew colder over time, her lack of clothing making her hairs stand on end. You felt the urge to walk over to her and drape the robe back over her body, despite how unbothered she seemed by the low temperature.

“Time! What have you guys noticed so far?” The teacher inquired in genuine curiosity as she started walking again, eager to observe everyone’s work. You couldn’t think of an answer, no, your eyes straying back to the model, once more allowed to watch her without having to draw. You had moved your small stool to the side a bit, the model noting that she could see you fully in your new set up. Her gaze flicked down your body for just a split second to see all of you before her eyes were back on yours, the model maintaining her pose meticulously. You felt your body burn up when her lips pursed the slightest bit, threatening to curve into a smile, her eyes turning almost playful.

“You… um, Y/L/N, right? What have you learned?” The teacher asked suddenly, walking beside you to see your sketches. She clearly had impeccable name memory. Your eyes widened, the model scrunching her nose discreetly as if apologetic for the situation you had found yourself in.

“Yeah, uhh…” You simply could not think, struggling to form a single word in your brain that had been caught off guard by your teacher’s inquiry, anxiety creeping up your neck to squeeze your throat. “Lots”, you mumbled, glancing at the model, which turned out to be a mistake because she was biting down on her lower lip to keep herself from laughing at your poor answer. “You can go a long way with just… shapes”, you elaborated, the teacher seeming to accept your answer, nodding in agreement.

“Yes, precisely! I want you to look at your subject and draw shapes”, she began, her words clearly aimed at the entire class, her attention no longer on you or your work. “We often overcomplicate things by focusing on what they are instead of the shapes that build up the whole picture”, she explained, your attention going back to the model, your teacher’s voice fading into oblivion.

You weren’t sure whether it was all in your head or not, but you felt like there was tension between you and the woman in front of you, a connection. It almost made you feel like it was just the two of you in the classroom. Maybe it was because she was looking at you and you only, or because you were being delusional and a hopeless romantic who caved at the very thought of being the object of someone’s observation. You wished you could have spoken to her, could have somehow confirmed whether you were crazy or not, but it wasn’t allowed. You weren’t allowed to contact her in any way which caused a sudden wave of sorrow to go through you. Something about her made you want to get to know her, your predicament striking you as rather unfortunate because you didn’t feel that way about a lot of people. You couldn’t remember the last time you had even cared to waste a single thought on someone who you didn’t know. You glanced at the model again, trying to give her a small smile, wanting to give her some kind of signal of communication, but your smile was shy, so shy in fact that it probably didn’t look like a smile at all. You almost didn’t dare to look if she reacted to it, but to your utter surprise she returned your smile, the look in her eyes shifting the slightest bit. It was like she could smile through her eyes.

“Thank you for today. I’m looking forward to seeing you all next week!” The teacher’s voice drew you back into reality. You blinked your eyes, nearly flinching when the model moved suddenly, the effect very similar to that of a moving statue, the woman getting off the stool to pick up her robe, sliding it on to fight the cold of the classroom as the other students cleaned up after themselves, loud rustling of paper sounding in the air. You couldn’t move, still far too occupied by her energy, your eyes lingering on her, and then all of a sudden, she was closer. She was walking closer to you. She came to a stop in front of you, taking a good look at your sheet of paper filled with sketches of various levels of effort. She glanced down at you on your seat, pursing her lips to hide her smile.

“You’re very talented”, she said quietly, her voice low and smooth, not something you had expected, but it suited her perfectly. You didn’t know what to say or do, looking up at her with your lips parted, searching for words, but you didn’t have to figure out anything to say because she turned around and walked away, disappearing through the door that was on your left.

You exited the class in a haze, so deep inside your mind that you didn’t even realize it was dark and raining outside. The wind blew in your face, wetting your hair and skin as thoroughly as possible, your fingers doing their best to untangle your earbuds as you walked down the street, dodging a couple pedestrians who you nearly ran into on the narrow sidewalk. A man hit you with his shoulder, not far from pushing you into a pole in his hurry to avoid the rain. You would’ve thought that New Yorkers would have been used to the rain, but apparently you were wrong. Yet the normally irritating encounter didn’t manage to ruin your mood, not when you had someone who tended to steal your attention time and time again with her red hair, and sweet voice. You kept replaying her words in your mind, trying to remember the tone of her voice as accurately as possible, but you could already feel it slipping away from you despite your efforts. It frustrated you. You needed to know more about her, hear more of her voice, anything at all really. You wanted more, unable to shake her from your mind as you hurried down a staircase to catch the subway that had just come to a stop and was opening its doors to new passengers. You picked up your pace, running along the platform and slipping inside the train.

The memory of the model would not leave you alone, your mind returning to the way she had smiled at you, the way those impossibly green eyes had looked at you for minutes on end. She was there when you went to bed, when you woke up the next morning, when you rode the subway to the university, when you sat in class. You wished to draw her again, noticing your notebooks slowly fill up with quick sketches of that same pose that was forever going to be ingrained into your muscle memory. However, you struggled to remember the smaller details, none of your sketches resembling her enough, a growing frustration alerting you of its presence. You had to get it right, you had to see her again.

You were sitting in a lecture hall, shading in the muscles of her thighs absentmindedly as your professor spoke about the significance of Victorian literature. You liked your professor, finding her voice soothing, which often ended up being deceitful because it made you zone out without you even trying, her calm way of speaking allowing you to focus all your attention on the sketch in front of you. The model was beautiful, she was so beautiful even in your inaccurate sketch. You sighed quietly, tilting your head as you tapped your pencil against the sketchbook. You wondered what her name was, how old she was, what she did for a living. She looked like someone with an elegant name like Eleanor, or Francesca, or Antoinette, well, maybe not that fancy, but something along those lines. Maybe Anastasia or Madeleine. She looked older than you for sure, but certainly not too old for you. You liked older. Maybe she was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, and possibly a full-time model. Although it didn’t seem to quite fit her. In your head she was not exactly a model by occupation which made you ponder how she had ended up in your classroom. She was athletic and worked out, that was for sure, her defined forearms and calves flashing through your mind. There was so much you didn’t know, so much room for possibility, room for you to make assumptions, the ambiguity allowing you to see whatever you desired. She was a blank canvas, a mystery for you to uncover.

An entire week’s worth of lectures went to waste as you daydreamed about your next art class in the hopes of seeing her again. You had far too much time on your hands to let your imagination run wild during lectures, every minute spent sketching as you thought about her. You thought about drawing her, painting her, holding her hand, your fantasies advancing to scenarios outside of art class to silly things like her waiting for you at campus, the autumn wind fluffing up her curls, a cup of coffee in her hand. You imagined the way she would smile at you, those pillowy lips sipping on her drink as she watched you do your homework at the library. You had decided that she liked pumpkin spice lattes with extra syrup and whipped cream on top. You thought that she looked like someone with an office of some sorts and maybe a nice flat in Brooklyn. You imagined that she wore classy clothes with an occasional odd piece that didn’t always fit her style. Of course you didn’t know because you had only ever seen her naked. The thought made you blush, an urge to hide away taking over you as your gaze met your professor’s. Hopefully she couldn’t read your mind. Her eyes flitted down to the sketchbook on your table, but she didn’t say a word despite seeing you do anything but focus on what she was talking about. You felt mortified, but only for a split second because then you were already dreaming of the way she would cup your face and pull you in by your waist to plant her lips on yours, and then before you could control your mind her fingers were buried deep inside you, her tongue licking into your mouth. Your entire body was lit on fire in mere seconds, your tight jeans only amplifying the arousal you felt pool between your legs. Oh, crap. You had a crush.

You weren’t one to flirt with women, you weren’t one to spend time around people, but for her you could’ve made an exception. You didn’t have crushes, you didn’t daydream, you weren’t a lover girl, yet slowly, you were becoming one, your mind consumed by a woman you knew nothing about. You couldn’t understand it. It was so unlike you to have silly crushes like that, but you couldn’t deny it. She was on your mind day and night, visiting you in your dreams. You loved and hated the feeling, finding joy in the thrill of liking someone, yet at the same time it was agonizing to know that it would never actualize into anything real. You were struck by an intense wave of affection, the subject of your admiration having no clue about any of it, which was both a relief and a disappointment to you.

A week rolled by on its own, bringing a sense of anticipation with it. You had patiently waited for your second art class in the hopes of seeing your newfound muse again, beyond thrilled that the agonizing wait was over. You said goodbye to one of your only friends at the university, heading to the beautiful, old building you had entered for the first time a week ago. You located your classroom with ease that time around, pumped full of excitement as you set everything up according to your teacher’s instructions, trying to remain patient as you waited for the class to begin. You were thrilled to create, to draw, to lose yourself in your work –in her– much like what you had been doing the previous week of school. You just needed to see her again, you needed to refresh your memory, even if you wouldn’t be allowed to talk to her. It didn’t even matter because you had gained your spark back, found passion, found something artistic to direct your energy toward. You had finally found a reason to create again, your heart longing for that consistent flow of inspiration, that high of creation, success, that state of mediation. You waited with the utmost patience for your teacher to bring out your model, but to your utter disappointment, she never showed up. She wasn’t there. Instead, you got a male model and an exercise for practicing color theory, which normally would have been greatly appreciated, but you just couldn’t get past the heaviness in your chest. Every time the teacher came to check on your work and tell you that your colors were looking sad you felt like crying. You wanted to ask her if she could bring your model back, but you knew you couldn’t even mention the woman without coming off as weird and unprofessional, so you bit back your sorrow, your wounded heart bleeding onto the canvas in dull, muddy colors that made the lively, young man sad and hollow.

When you finally escaped the classroom at the end of the night you burst into tears. You felt so desolate, like you had been abandoned, left alone, which was of course more than ridiculous because she didn’t even know your name. She wasn’t in your life, she was merely a person who you had crossed paths with, yet for some reason it hurt so much. It hurt unbelievably much considering you had never been anything at all, not even acquaintances, but the lost possibility of something more seemed to linger in your mind as you rounded the corner and entered a coffee shop to escape the frigid wind of September, in search of something that could provide comfort to your depressed mind. You got yourself a warm drink and a fat muffin, finding a seat in the corner of the cafe where you could cry in peace, looking out the window at the wet streets that glistened under the streetlamps as the rough wind whipped the leaves off the defenseless trees.

More chapters to come!

[muskaanayesha]

Watching the eldest daughter take on the second mother role in a family (cannot interfere, it's a canon event)

[jkbunny2001]

Okay, so I just watched “THE BOY” for the first time in my life… and bitch you cannot tell that Brahm’s not a sub leaning switch

LOOK AT THIS MAN, HE’S CRAWLING FOR HER

This is my personal opinion, but this is what I think Brahm is in the bedroom:

• can be dominant but loves to be please his girl, doing whatever he want to make her feel good

• sub switch 1000%, tell him what to do

• mommy kink, without a doubt, which ties into the switch, he wants to please his mommy

• solid 8 inches with 3 inch girth

• constantly horny, definitely likes to watch you pleasure yourself through the wall

• loves to cuddle afterwards, clinging to you after receiving or giving you pleasure

• still 1000% self conscious about you leaving him and would do anything to make you stay

• wants to be buried in you 24/7

• loves to see you ride him, that’s when his mommy kink pops out the most, seeing you dominate him from the top

…..not gonna lie it’s a huge turn on, if he wasn’t a psychopathic killer…..

OH WHO GIVES A SHIT!? HES HOT ASF! LOOK AT THIS BITCH!

And look how cute he is with his hands in his pockets 😭

Now I wanna do a fanfic about him… lemme know! Is that something you would read??