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My pronouns are..


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Found 20 results

  1. EMT

    female Hestia

    © http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=49740404

  2. © http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=33291363

  3. ShadowDog

    john

    © http://thatplacewiththedog.tumblr.com

  4. Maki

    female 34332915

    © http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=34332915

  5. trashゴミ

    female [Non-Omo] Akiyama Mio

    From the album: アイデンティティ004's Artwork

    Both sides of the lovely Mio :D

    © http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=46636187

  6. ShadowDog

    sollux

    © http://thatplacewiththedog.tumblr.com

  7. ShadowDog

    female shego

    © http://thatplacewiththedog.tumblr.com

  8. I found this pretty image while searching Gelbooru. It's named with both the original japanese name, and its translation. I think it's pretty obvious. Plus, I tagged it with the artist's name and put it under "tagme", so people with better imagination could tag it.

    © http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=46862505

  9. It has been awhile since I've written anything fetish related. It may not seem like it, because Once in a Blue Moon was posted just the other day, but that was actually written months ago! Well, without further ado, and starring the same character from a different story I wrote a WHILE back, and based on a real girl: The Many Stories of Samantha. There really is something to be said about a shy girl. The delicate stereotype seems to leave them vulnerable and mysterious. It creates a homely sense of taboo. They are a safe venture into the unknown: reserved, cautious, and most importantly at one's whim. Although, there is also a bit to be said about the outgoing females, or as I call them: "women." The typically exhibited independence and strength - no matter how meager - can often prove reassuring to the defensive male. But in all my generalization, there is one type of girl that I find even more enticing. There is a rare hybrid of people; they're both shy and outgoing, exhibiting both qualities in the most charming of ways. If there was a single word to describe these romantics, I would use it, but in its absence, I will simply say "Samantha"; for she was the first of them I ever knew. She was slim, her behind somewhat lacking, but her chest in a delightful middle-ground between small and large. Long, black hair draping down to her shoulders; dark green eyes bringing balance to her upfront attitude and teasing nature; pale white skin granting an almost divine glow by a perfect tan; and if that wasn't enough, a sense of style - both modest and arousing. I was only fourteen when I met her. She was my best-friend's sister, and as soon as I laid my eyes on her smooth and welcoming face, I felt immense attraction - as well as intimidation. I had spent most of my youth traveling around due to uncertain living conditions, and like many kids who traveled a lot, I was not particularly comfortable with the ladies. I suppose I was much like a "shy girl" myself, simply without the benefits of actually being female. Her outward aggression didn't help my trepidation, either. She wasn't abusive, but she was an eighteen year old girl being an eighteen year old woman, and because of this, her words could often sting. Much like her father, she could be sarcastic, belligerent, stubborn; but it was never done in a truly hostile matter. As I grew used to her and as I grew older, I slowly started to "get it." As my understanding increased, so did my attraction. Now, as I said before, she had a rather tantalizing sense of style; by this I mean that she was runner and often dressed like one. She would laze around in thin, cotton shorts, stopping just at her upper-thigh; and while her shirts were mostly plain - cotton tees sometimes embroided with a pocket or decorated with a design - there were a few exceptions where she could be seen in something else, and in one particular instance, without something else. But I digress. I remember my friend talked for years about getting a pool, and when he finally did, we were both ecstatic. We lived in the hot and humid area of central Florida, deep in the suburbs where the vacation ends and the family life begins. It was an above-ground pool so we were somewhat limited in what we could do, but two young boys with raw, ignorant imaginations were not to be stopped so easily. There was also the matter of Samantha. Given her outgoing nature, it wasn't too large a stretch that she would join us one of those hot days and I would finally have the pleasure of seeing her in a bikini. Despite how frivolous that may sound, it was a grand thought to me - a young boy. I can say with regret that this never happened, and I do somewhat suspect my friend to be to blame. He knew of my crush on his sister, most likely since I talked openly to him about how gorgeous she was, and he disapproved. He had told me specifically that his sister would not ever be joining us, nor would she ever be coming out in a bikini. I still had hope, since he had no way of stopping her, but in retrospect, it appears I underestimated him, since she never did join us. Although his powers were not all-controlling, since I did at a later date get the privilege of seeing her in bikini bottoms, and potentially in the most provocative way possible. To quickly tell the tale, I had been invited over to watch the new Harry Potter movie, The Goblet of Fire. His family had already watched it, so it was just me and my friend. But as you have probably already guessed, we were not the only ones in the house; his sister was present back in her room. At some point in the movie, she came out, and visible to me was only a long, white t-shirt. My eyes casually drifted over to her when I suspected no one was watching me, and much to my supreme delight she stretched, most likely trying to taunt me with her devilish sex appeal like she loved to do, and her shirt raised. That was when I saw her in dark-red bikini bottoms, decorated with what I believe were flower designs. There was one particular day, some type of special event or celebration, and while I'm not sure what it was, I knew it was going on, since Samantha's parents had allowed her to drink. Even though she was twice as intimidating drunk then she was sober, I found great amusement in the idea; of course, at that age I didn't truly understand the effects drinking could have. I simply found comical amusement in the thought, rather than physical. My friend and I were swimming in the pool, having a good time, using our imaginations and the various inflatables around us, when Samantha came outside. She was in a playful mood, and she made drunken conversation with us. It was a bit awkward and somewhat tense, but she was too inebriated to tell. Unlike my friend, I didn't particularly mind. Simply looking at her perfect face was a delight; swimming in those deep, green eyes. There is something I neglected to state about her disposition, though. Her actions were a bit off, her arm seemed to wrap gently around her stomach as she sat on the pool-latter, bare feet in the pool water, her free-hand sometimes drifting between her legs. I noticed between her threats to kill us if we splashed water on her, that her legs were almost never still. I don't know how obvious her potential need for the toilet would have been for the average person, nor do I know how obvious it was for my friend, but it was apparent to me, and beneath the water I hid my arousal: the waves contorting images, masking my shame. Their father walked outside, somewhat drunken as well. He spoke loudly to her across the lawn, making joking conversation: asking her why she was out with us and not inside with them. As she fended him off, and between the glances of my friend, I couldn't help but stare intently at her deep, red, running shorts. I fantasized about a wave rising just a bit too high and soaking the pool-latter with water. It would soak the bottoms of her shorts, creating the image she had wet herself, feeding my imagination and desires. I pictured her suddenly losing control of her swollen bladder, soaking the shorts herself, a small stream of urine dripping into the pool. When their dad finally retreated into the house to mingle with the other guests, she directed her attention back over to us. There wasn't much left to say at that point, and I wondered why she had come out at all; although attempting to understand the drunk was a foolish endeavor. There was a long silence, and I feared that she was going to go back inside, but before she had a chance, something miraculous happened: a beetle had landed on the shoulder of my friend - whom is a male - sending him into a quick fit of girlish screams and sporadic movement. Both his sister and I fell into a fit of laugter. I looked up at her shorts and hoped to see that some water had splashed there in the discord, but much to my disappointment, she was quite dry. I did, however, notice that she held her bottle of alcohol close to her, and her free hand pressed down on her lower area. I wondered to what extent she was desperate, but I didn't have much a chance to wonder. I heard a slight hissing sound come from an undisclosed location as she let out a sudden gasp - red faced and laughing hysterically. Her legs were spread just a few inches, just enough for me to suddenly see the crotch of her shorts quickly darken. The hissing sound stopped as her legs closed, but it quickly restored, this time slightly louder. She sat in front of me - the object of my love and desire - peeing uncontrollably into her tight, skimpy shorts; then, I saw it: a small stream of urine began to fall into the pool, the dripping sound and the hiss she exhibited covered by nothing more than the quiet, breathless laughter of us all. The hissing lasted only a few seconds, but they were quite possibly the greatest seconds of my life. There was no lingering sense of regret that seems to come with age and attach itself to all joys; no, there was only bliss and ecstasy. When we had all calmed down, the urine rolling off into the pool had slowed significantly, and she gingerly stood up, taking precautions not to fall in her drunken stupor. I couldn't peel my eyes away from the dark mark on the shorts. There was a steady dripping of urine coming from the shorts as she stood before us, unsure of what to do. She told us not to tell anybody it happened, and while I'm not sure my friend would keep his lips sealed, I intended too - at least until now. She stood up on the latter and faced away from us. As she climbed down it, I admired how her wet shorts clung sensually to her butt and gave me a rather good view of its shape. She placed her bottle down next to the puddle of urine, in a small area of dryness on the latter, and submerged herself in the cold water. She soon resurfaced, and as she held herself tightly to ward off the icy chill of the water, I inadvertently caught a glance of her chest. Her shirt was a dark green, and much like the shorts had to her butt, it clung tightly to her bosom. I could easily make out the shape of her breasts in surprising detail; her bra simultaneously diluting and enhancing the image. After she had gotten herself thoroughly soaked and her clothes washed out, she headed to the latter and washed off the urine. She then - leaving us far too soon! - climbed up the steps to head back inside and change. I watched as the shorts, now heavy, nearly slipped downward: unfortunately, she caught them just in time and I was unable to catch a glimpse of her butt or underwear. It didn't matter much, though. I had already been blessed with so much, and I was further blessed with getting to watch her leave the pool, a waterfall running off the pants, pouring conveniently from the crotch area of the shorts - further stimulating the imagination of a young boy. I've had many more encounters with Samantha over the years; that was merely the first. Not all of them involved urine, and some were simply arousing for other reasons. Maybe I will get around to telling some more...
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