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VOYEUR ( FEBRUARY ) — OTA.
💕 VOYEUR
PROFILE GENERATED BY THE HOUSE
SET
@SET
💗 PERFORMER
💌 PATRON REQUESTS
💕 Request #1: "Let them take the knife to you, the crop, the clenched fist, the teeth; it's not like you haven't taken it before, over and over and over. It's what you were made for."
💕 Request #2: "I know you can't stand tenderness, you don't trust it. Let them treat you so sweetly it drives you mad with guilt. You still don't deserve any of it."
PROFILE
When you're the god of the desert, the line in the sand is a suggestion, rather than the rule. A shapeshifer that could become anything or anyone you've dreamt of — male, female, animal or object — want double of your lover? that person you desire but don't have a chance with? that ex you want to hatefuck one more time? look no further than the most malleable house guest there is. Best requested for: pushing boundaries ( yours, mostly; his, if you have the guts ) and immersive roleplay.
⚠️ PERFORMER NOTES:
Hard limits: bathroom play. Specializes in extreme acts of violence, giving or receiving. Best paired with people fed up, frustrated and/or looking for a someone that will last far longer than their favorite rechargeable toy.
DETECTED KINKS
#VERSATILITY
#SHAPESHIFTING
#ROLE-PLAY
#EXTREME VIOLENCE ⚠️
#MEAN MOMMY
#DEGRADATION ⚠️
#DIRTY TALK#WINNER TAKES ALL
You didn't create this profile. You can't edit it. You can't delete it.
You are the content. They are watching.
You are the content. They are watching.
cw mention of forced sexual reconstruction
[ He whispers the word, like it means something else. The order was to be whatever Embry wanted. ( It urged him, to be a whore. He can play the whore, by now. What kind of whore, is the question. He's piss-poor at reading people, after all. )
And he knows what he isn't, and it's not a woman. Never a woman, no matter how desperately Osiris had slipped his hand inside of Set's body and rearranged it to suit a primal need — the god of life and green things, desperate to force unresponsive sands to bear, to one day be desperately and hopelessly bound to him and no other. He's not a woman, but Embry's Greer had said — taking the thing most distasteful to you and turning it into a part of a game... gives you the power over it. Shanks calls him "wife", and he permits it. Has permitted it, from the beginning. Now, he wears a pretty white gown and wonders — what need is Embry trying to fulfill, using the body draped across his thighs?
Into the waves and whorls of Embry's dusky hair, pale fingers slip and grasp and curl in steady passes; nails scratch across his scalp, petting sweetly at the back of Embry's skull like he's a particularly sweet animal meant to be rewarded. Of course, the front of the dress dips readily — unbound at the back, it falls around the swell of Set's breasts, and he tips his head back and lengthens his throat while Embry mouths at him until his shoulders are flushed. The tightening ache of his nipple tugs a testy, brief hiss from behind his sharp teeth; the slip of a nail-become-claws scores a shallow line down the back of Embry's neck.
Studious, sharp eyes gleam as he looks from the gown, to those painfully, hauntingly blue eyes. He turns his head, seeking the crystalline stopper on the bottle of amber alcohol, tongue curving around the head of it — mouth, plush and red, pushing full and swollen against the surface. Like he ought to be kissing the fat, blunt head of Embry's cock instead; Set rolls his hips, the shimmering material of the gown gathering higher on his spread thighs as he nestles down against the interested ( thank goodness ) heat below his cunt, wet and bare. Why bother wearing anything below the gown?
He tugs the stopper free from the decanter, tongue cradling it as he delicately turns his head and spills it onto the bed. The scent of alcohol, a strong plum and oak undercurrent to an expensive cognac, strengthening by the second as Set fits his elbows alongside the swell of his bare tits and lifts them, presses them together until the line of his cleavage forms a narrow basin — and he tips the decanter over them, heedless of flesh, gown or bed below the two of them and mercilessly aims to drown the man in a few mouthfuls of alcohol, steady rivulets dripping off the rosy tips of his nipples. ]
Embry, [ he sighs, softening the edges of his stern face as sweetly as he can. Teeth finding the bottom of his lip, faux-coquettish ( it just doesn't work, not well on his face; he's too sharp, too deadly ). ] All yours. Sweet, terrible boy — let me serve you properly, hm?