RTgeygin @geygin - Twitter Profile

geygin retweeted

Cruel domination

@Crueldomination

9 months ago

~ https://t.co/S0nxME3eZa ↖️

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geygin retweeted

Gregor Faustus

@GregorFaustus

9 months ago

Whiplash The whine of fluorescent lights echoed off steel benches and slick concrete floors in the leather worker’s studio, where neat rows of awls and knives glinted beside clean-cut sheets of hide. The only hint of luxury was a battered coffee maker in the corner, hissing low steam into the spartan air. She entered with the electric certainty of a spotlight flicking on — her presence acute, her attire arresting. From the crown of her glossy, perfectly coiffed hair to the jet-black stiletto boots clicking on the hard floor, she was the very picture of expensive rebellion. Every inch of her was fitted in leather that clung and curved like a second skin, the jacket tailored to precision, the trousers hugging her legs, gleaming softly in the hard workshop light. Diamond earrings flashed beneath her sleek tresses; a platinum watch winked beneath a glove cuff. She swept past the racks of ordinary goods — tool belts, riding tack, harnesses custom-made for much humbler hands —without a single glance. Her perfume, sharp and ice-cold, replaced the musk of oil and hide as she stalked to the counter where the bullwhip was coiled awaiting her. She picked it up as one might a sceptre, her nails — lacquered in blood red—clicking against the hand-braided handle. She uncoiled it with a lazy precision, letting it slither down and snap smartly against the floor, setting a tremor through the reinforced workbench legs. “And this,” she sneered, pursing her lips, “is what weeks of your labour have produced?” She brandished the whip, examining the intricate plait. “Is my patronage not clear enough? Should I spell out that I expect something exquisite, not serviceable?” Her voice was coolly disdainful, practiced to wound with each syllable. The craftsman mumbled about handcraft and tension, but she barely looked at him, her reflection caught in the workshop’s shiny tool cabinet. “You talk of craft, but it is my money that gives meaning to your tired hands,” she said, resting one arm on the counter, her bracelets clinking against the glass. “Or would you truly have me parade this . . . mediocrity . . .before those who matter? Perhaps I should rename it the ‘peasant’s pride’, hmm?” She cracked the whip at a stack of offcuts, her lips curling in delighted contempt as scraps scattered across the floor. “It’s unrefined. Churlish. Not something anyone of taste would dignify.” She looped the whip carelessly at her hip, the motion as practiced as a fashion model’s turn. “You’ll have your payment, naturally. I don’t haggle — especially not where it might be noticed.” Her eyes sliced through him. “But understand: if this happens again, you will find yourself barred from every commission of substance, and no doubt you’ll slide back into obscurity. I elevate you, remember, not the other way round.” With a final flick of her hair and a pistol-shot of her heels, she strode to the glass door. When it swung silently shut, the workshop seemed suddenly shabbier by comparison, and still humming with the aftershocks of her practiced, poisonous grandeur.

GregorFaustus's tweet photo. Whiplash

The whine of fluorescent lights echoed off steel benches and slick concrete floors in the leather worker’s studio, where neat rows of awls and knives glinted beside clean-cut sheets of hide. The only hint of luxury was a battered coffee maker in the corner, hissing low steam into the spartan air.

She entered with the electric certainty of a spotlight flicking on — her presence acute, her attire arresting. From the crown of her glossy, perfectly coiffed hair to the jet-black stiletto boots clicking on the hard floor, she was the very picture of expensive rebellion. Every inch of her was fitted in leather that clung and curved like a second skin, the jacket tailored to precision, the trousers hugging her legs, gleaming softly in the hard workshop light. Diamond earrings flashed beneath her sleek tresses; a platinum watch winked beneath a glove cuff.

She swept past the racks of ordinary goods — tool belts, riding tack, harnesses custom-made for much humbler hands —without a single glance. Her perfume, sharp and ice-cold, replaced the musk of oil and hide as she stalked to the counter where the bullwhip was coiled awaiting her.

She picked it up as one might a sceptre, her nails — lacquered in blood red—clicking against the hand-braided handle. She uncoiled it with a lazy precision, letting it slither down and snap smartly against the floor, setting a tremor through the reinforced workbench legs.

“And this,” she sneered, pursing her lips, “is what weeks of your labour have produced?” She brandished the whip, examining the intricate plait. “Is my patronage not clear enough? Should I spell out that I expect something exquisite, not serviceable?” Her voice was coolly disdainful, practiced to wound with each syllable.

The craftsman mumbled about handcraft and tension, but she barely looked at him, her reflection caught in the workshop’s shiny tool cabinet.

“You talk of craft, but it is my money that gives meaning to your tired hands,” she said, resting one arm on the counter, her bracelets clinking against the glass. “Or would you truly have me parade this . . . mediocrity . . .before those who matter? Perhaps I should rename it the ‘peasant’s pride’, hmm?”

She cracked the whip at a stack of offcuts, her lips curling in delighted contempt as scraps scattered across the floor. “It’s unrefined. Churlish. Not something anyone of taste would dignify.”

She looped the whip carelessly at her hip, the motion as practiced as a fashion model’s turn. “You’ll have your payment, naturally. I don’t haggle — especially not where it might be noticed.” Her eyes sliced through him. “But understand: if this happens again, you will find yourself barred from every commission of substance, and no doubt you’ll slide back into obscurity. I elevate you, remember, not the other way round.”

With a final flick of her hair and a pistol-shot of her heels, she strode to the glass door. When it swung silently shut, the workshop seemed suddenly shabbier by comparison, and still humming with the aftershocks of her practiced, poisonous grandeur.

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geygin retweeted

Lady Perse ❤️ OF 5$ ❤️

@lady_perse

9 months ago

Are you brave enough to put this cuffs without knowing what happen next? Subscribe to see more! https://t.co/AYNe8mGPO7 #realloyalfans

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geygin retweeted

𝒜𝓁𝒾𝓃𝒶

@AllForAlina

over 1 year ago

It’s my birthday, the most important day of the year! Spoil me senseless and goon yourself into oblivion for my tight leather clad body 💋

AllForAlina's tweet photo. It’s my birthday, the most important day of the year! Spoil me senseless and goon yourself into oblivion for my tight leather clad body 💋 https://t.co/iIY1aVdY66

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Who to follow

Adrian Pichard

@AdrianPichard19

Fans of Feminine Energy 1k

@fans_femininity

All sorts of fan content around feminine energy and beauty including but not limited to beautiful females, findom and thinspo. I'm male

geygin retweeted

over 1 year ago

Simp harder.

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geygin retweeted

𝒜𝓁𝒾𝓃𝒶

@AllForAlina

over 1 year ago

Kiss it.

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geygin retweeted

𝒜𝓁𝒾𝓃𝒶

@AllForAlina

over 1 year ago

Shiny

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geygin retweeted

𝒜𝓁𝒾𝓃𝒶

@AllForAlina

over 1 year ago

My heel 🤝 your mouth

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geygin retweeted

Cruel domination

@Crueldomination

about 1 year ago

❤️✅➡️https://t.co/IhBKo5xEjc ✅↖️My friends and I tied a slave, slap him in the face and choke him)) he will sniff our smelly armpits, I think he will like it!) After we make him lick our asses) Look at his face, it's all white, it's our snow-white drool, sweet and divine, we just drowned him in drool. This is in another part of the video)