“How Did You Spend Your Weekend?”
F I L T H
FILTH is not dirt.
It’s the holy residue left when desire has burned through civility.
Filth is the prayer whispered in sweat, the sermon written in bruises, the hymn sung in the back of your throat when you gag around my name. 🧎🏾➡️
That night, she was offered to me—collared, cuffed, hair pulled tight, body already trembling.🎀
Not a stranger. Not quite a lover. Something else: a conspiracy of flesh arranged between her Dom and me. Think Allen Dulles, but with a crop instead of a pen—quiet operations in the open, precision disguised as chaos, the kind of choreography the CIA never admitted but always envied.
The tools were simple. Gloves I’d bought long ago—spiked palms meant to mark, sting, remind her skin that it belonged to me. 🧤Rope strung from ankles to collar, not enough to stop her from riding me, but just enough to choke her when she came too hard. 🪢 And she was the type who couldn’t not cum. Hyper-sensitive. Greedy. A body designed to betray itself.
💦💦💦🌊
So while she straddled me on that bench, her Dom made her break. Hair twisted in his fist, crop snapping against her ass.🍑 She squealed, squirted, sobbed, came again and again until the floor was slick and the rope had turned her orgasms into a garrote.
Each wave of pleasure pulled tighter, punished deeper, pressed her closer to the black edge where breath gives way to silence.
And me? I was the archivist of her ruin. My gloves closed on her breasts, spikes digging crescents into flesh, nipples crushed between my fingers until she couldn’t tell the difference between agony and devotion. 🍒. Every thrust of her hips wrote a new file in my private library: classified, top secret, stamped “property of me.”
There’s a moment in scenes like this where the world stops. 🛑
The noise of the crowd dissolves. The lights fade. You’re not in a public dungeon anymore—you’re in a chamber beyond time, beyond morality. ⏳
A red-haired Irish goddess / whore riding herself unconscious on my cock while her Dom smirked and struck her. It was not sex. It was statecraft. It was magic. It was filth.
When she finally collapsed. —passed out from her own hunger—the room exhaled like it had been holding its breath. I stroked her cheek, and the thought hit me like a sermon from a cruel god:
🛌
Filth is the only truth that never lies.
And I loved it. I loved her. Not as a woman, not as a submissive, but as a weapon I’d been handed to wield. And when I looked at her Dom, I saw the same thing in his eyes. The hunger to keep feeding her to the machine.
Because here’s the secret: filth doesn’t end with one scene. 🎬 It lingers. It stains. 💦 It crawls into your dreams and makes you want more. So yes—she soaked the bench. She soaked me. She baptized herself in submission until her body gave out.
And you—reading this—you already know if you want it too.
Girl or boy, You want to feel that rope. You want the crop’s sting.
You want the world to vanish until there is only your ruin, and the magic of a scene that feels like it was carved out of classified files and whispered spells.
Filth isn’t a story.
Filth is an invitation.
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That’s the shape: long, layered, filthy, but laced with philosophy and hypnosis.