Guy with strict sexual kinks needs lovers (participants). m4w
Hey there. I'm looking to play out some fantasies but it's tough to find like-minded individuals in my modest village.
I'd like to be smothered by 5-7 pregnant women, 4 months in or more each. The meeting will take place in a large home owned by one of you, where I will be passively and shyly sitting down on a sofa next to some live plants. You ladies will be gathered around me like a Tupperware Party, talking amongst yourselves and stating how intriguing I'm being by not saying a word. You can also pepper me with compliments (e.g. "sweetie," "honey," "beefy grain-fed cattle,"). Eventually, you'll need to take off your businesswear and reveal the spaghetti strap tanktops you have on below. Each of you will have to wear different colors, as I don't care to, nor would I remember your names. Tanktops colors must be light. I'm thinking baby blue, yellow, pink, light purple, etc. These will be complimented by boyshorts.
The real fun will begin when you lasses gather around me on the floor, say I'm cuter than the boy from Ponyo and sit on my face. You will be dressed in your attire the entire time. I will be wearing only my Batman boxers. Once I've gained your trust you may get a glance at my member, but only after each of you promise your fathers treated you well, compliment my smells and promise my memory will never leave the confines of your heart.
At some point I want one of you to get on top of me, look me in the eyes and smile, and cry your tears directly into my eyes. This way we will know each other's sadness. The sublime, bittersweet essence of life transferring souls. If the eyes are the pancakes of the soul, tears are the maple syrup. The rest of you will take turns smushing your butt in my face while slapping my bare bubble-gut with two hands, repeating one of the following phrases: "You're a Barbie Boy," "Betcha want another hotdog, don'tcha?" and, "Someone's gonna tinkle on you. Guess who, guess who?"
In exchange, during this mating ritual I will yell sweet nothings into a megaphone aimed at your impregnated stomachs and write anarchy symbols over them like in that one video by Atari Teenage Riot. Each bulbous belly will be tummy-kissed pink beforehand. If I reach arousal or orgasm, the night will end in a unified embrace and we shall apologize to God for what has transpired. The female responsible for spilling my seed must stay to console me through the night.
If you're not pregnant you may still be of service. You must be over-sized in one of the following: height, weight, nose, teeth, stomach, or lips. You are to carry your most cherished childhood plush at all times. You should be a passive, timid girl, preferably pale, as that skin's susceptible to Sharpie. I plan to draw penises on your legs, so you'll be knee-high in penises. I will draw vaginas on your hips because I believe those spots make more sense biologically. Aside your snatch will be a portrait of Inspector Gadget, as it's the only thing that can improve upon a vagina. On your hopefully rotund stomach will be a detailed drawing of the chestburster from Alien leaping through your flesh.
You will be duct taped to yourself, then my sofa shortly after signing the release. You get to choose the safety word, and I will choose not to remember it. After you're bound and in my custody, we will rejoice in a movie I'd like to see, whether it's Drunken Angel, Kiki's Delivery Service, or Mean Girls. As you lie there, bondaged up to your neck, I will apply make up until you look like the one who got away. Don't squirm or squiggle unless you want surround sound headphones on your dome repeating the opening themes to MASH and Unsolved Mysteries.
After you look like my beloved, long lost Cassie, we'll sit for a quiet moment, eyes closed, inhaling each other's aura. I'll whisper to you secrets about the beauty of the planet, how stars are God's syphilis, why Scorpios make the best lovers, fucking magnets and how they work, unlocking your third eye with a potato peeler, and how my crown chakra dictates I must spunk in your hair. You will be forced to listen to my poetry. If you don't smile by the end, I'll re-read it. Example:
Bulma, you're not real
So say the phonies
That's your appeal
You won't say no to me
If not on this Earth
In Heaven I'll meetcha
To prove my worth
I'll fight that punk Vegeta
No more nights crying
Now I welcome danger
Putting in the grind
At the Hyberbolic Time Chamber
I was nobody, an Android 17
Now I'm lean from 10x gravity
Gimme that green hair
And that pink pizza
Working on a second Trunks
Splitting you like he did Frieza
This is when the magic happens. I lay you in bed like Leonardo DiCaprio did Juliet in Shakespeare In Love. You can't move. I have total control and still I lose control. I stare at you with a menacing look, then breakdown and cry and tell you my problems. You have no choice but to hear about my first love who nicknamed me, "What are you looking at?" how Janet Jackson's "I Get So Lonely" video made me a man, and why comparisons to Piglet are my only means of arousal. After an hour-long diatribe against Animal Crossing naysayers, you offer me your flesh and flower and compare me to a wild stallion, begging, "Take me. Rape me. Use my soul to your ends. Incinerate me. I'm aching." Then I tell you everything I know about Tetris. In lust, your body combusts from the vagina outward. Crying, I clutch your cherished childhood plush and sleep next to your ashes.
If either of these hold appeal or you know of a friend who fits the bill, have them hit me up by email.