kyan 🇵🇸

mulher pervertida porém conscientizada socialmente 👏

[kyan 🇵🇸 @mashkyv]

Primeiro beijo. (SFW) 🐺

#elementalista

Balthazar e Hayden discutem mais uma vez, o respeito mútuo daquela relação ameaçado pela insegurança dos homens-fera.

🦅

1.2k palavras.

PDF ⤵️

[babi @lilmwrmaid]

agora faz sem IA

[vitacidson da silva @matheusdevdd]

RECORDE NEGATIVO: Brasil é o primeiro país do mundo em que um canal de WhatsApp em defesa de um candidato é CENSURADO pela justiça

E quem censurou tá envolvido em tráfico humano de refugiadas de guerra e é acusado de receber mais de 400 milhões do "irmãozão" do Flávio Bolsonaro

[rafa ☆ lan wangji @yeIIowstars]

Estou vendo um livro de história se formando diante dos meus olhos

[Sam 🏳️‍⚧️🐞🩸 @sammieelima]

porra daqui a pouco o Mendonça proíbe votar 13 no dia 25

[lucas ☕️🇵🇸 @crumunista]

lula: dá marmita de graça pra população

pessoas que fizeram o almoço em casa:

[⛧ Bruxa das Almas ⛧ | Kimbanda 🔱 @oman_tarot1]

ja disse e repito
SAIAM CEDO DE CASAAAAAAAAAAA NO DIA DA VOTAÇÃO
VAI TER MUITO BOICOTE

[oliver 🐚 @evlyngrl_]

ISSO AQUI É UM CARTAZ PQP

[Zannandra @zannandra]

amando essa estratégia de

ou eu sou reeleito

ou você sustenta

[O allyba 🌾 @AllybDeDromeda]

Gente pelo amor de deus tem universitário PASSANDO NECESSIDADES pra bancar os estudos por favor votem no Lula PRECISAMOS desse apoio

[Corrupção Brasileira News @corrupcaobrnews]

🚨CONFIRMADO! Flávio Bolsonaro CONHECE, VIAJOU e PEDIU DINHEIRO para Daniel Vorcaro, banqueiro preso por fraudar no Banco Master.

[StagePop @stagepopbr]

🚨 Lula anuncia o PÉ-DE-MEIA UNIVERSITÁRIO e promete auxílio financeiro para estudantes do ensino superior no próximo governo.

O presidente anunciou a proposta, que prevê pagamentos mensais de R$ 700 durante 10 meses e um depósito adicional de R$ 2.500 ao final de cada ano. Segundo os valores divulgados, o benefício poderá chegar a R$ 10 mil ao longo de um curso de quatro anos.

“Esse é o Brasil do futuro dos nossos estudantes. Um abraço e viva o Pé-de-Meia!”, declarou Lula.

[Vinícius Alves @viniciuscaxias]

Se é tão fácil, pq o Flávio não escolhe a própria mulher, ao invés de ficar participando de orgia?

[ERIKA HILTON @ErikakHilton]

🚨 Estou acionando o TSE e pedindo a derrubada do canal "Tropa do Flávio" no WhatsApp pelo mesmo motivo que Kássio Nunes Marques mandou bloquear o canal Exército do Lula: falta de registro no TSE.

Assim como o canal "Tropa do Flávio", o "Exército do Lula" é um canal de APOIADORES, não um canal oficial. O canal de apoio ao Flávio é gerido por Nikolas Ferreira e o de Lula por André Janones.

Mas somente o canal de apoio a Lula e seus 4 milhões de membros estão sendo censurados pelas decisões do presidente do TSE. Curiosamente, na véspera da votação da minha PEC pelo FIM da escala 6x1.

E um adendo: ao contrário do canal Exército do Lula, o canal de Flávio Bolsonaro está compartilhando, abertamente, desinformação com fins eleitorais.

O canal de Flávio Bolsonaro chegou a publicar imagens falsas de uma jovem usando drogas na manifestação de domingo e uma imagem completamente racista, gerada por inteligência artificial, de uma mulher negra limpando as paredes na Avenida Paulista.

As regras têm que valer para todos. E precisa ficar claro: quem está desrespeitando-as é o canal de Flávio Bolsonaro, e ele precisa pagar por isso. E é obrigação do TSE cobrar.

[MASOA! @masoadesign]

ufa imagine como seria se tivesse banheiro trans na estação

[emy ⚢ @alrenglows]

se esse video não te dá ódio de classe então vc morreu por dentro

[Letícia🥐Cosmos¹² @leticia_cosmos]

"Você não viu mudança, mas o seu motorista viu, o seu jardineiro viu, a SUA empregada doméstica viu" Lula, 2022

[✧ ࿔ 𝔩𝔦́𝔯𝔦𝔬 𖤓˚࿔ ᵉᵍᵒ ᵈᵉᵃᵗʰ @remnantofsunset]

Gente, precisamos denunciar isso. Em todos os lugares, OS LOCAIS DE VOTAÇÃO DE MUITA GENTE MUDOU DO NADA EM PONTOS CRÍTICOS ONDE LULA RECEBE MAIS VOTOS. ISSO NAO É COINCIDÊNCIA, É INTERFERÊNCIA DO TSE!!!

TSE CORRUPTO.

[Lex 🕷️ValkoIsLoved ⊹⋆.˚ @zaynessbeloved]

★ — kinktober day one - exhibitionism

🔞ft. exhibitionism, voyeurism, fingering in public, edging, orgasm denial, dirty talk, possessive Rafayel, risk of being caught

—

His fingers are already inside you when someone asks him yet another question of many tonight about the brushwork.

Two of them, deep and slick and curling slow, buried to the knuckle under your dress while you stand there smiling like you aren’t about to soak through your panties.

“—the blue period, you know?” A critic in a too-tight blazer is babbling at Rafayel, gesturing at the huge canvas behind you. “The way you paint her—”

Her is you. Naked. Sprawled across Rafayel’s studio couch in nothing but morning light and a sheet slipping off your hip, thighs parted just enough to be obscene, your face turned away like you didn’t know he was watching. You remember that morning perfectly. Vivid memories of how good he fucked you right after.

And right now, in the middle of his sold-out opening, with fifty people drinking champagne around his paintings of you, Rafayel has his left hand in his pocket like a good boy and his right hand up your skirt, his palm cupping your bare ass to keep you pinned against the wall of the alcove.

You squeeze around him and have to bite your champagne glass to keep from moaning.

“Careful, cutie,” he murmurs, lips barely moving, eyes still on the critic. His voice is low and conspirational just for you. “You’re dripping all over my fingers. Gonna make a mess on the gallery floor at this rate.”

You want to kill him.

You met Rafayel eight months ago when you spilled coffee on his sketchbook at a street market and he insisted on painting you as ‘repayment’, which was stupid considering you were the one needing to pay him and not the other way around.

It was supposed to be one sitting. One portrait. But then it was another, and another, and late nights where he’d wipe paint off his hands and pull you into his lap and kiss you stupid while the canvas dried behind you. You told yourself it was just fun, and what was so wrong with having a little bit of it? Artists fall in love with everyone they paint, right?

Except you fell first. Hard. Quietly, too. In the in-between moments—the way he’d get paint in his hair and pout until you picked it out for him, the way he’d go completely silent when you were hurting and just hold your hand too tight, like he was more affected than you. The way he looks at you now, even while he’s finger-fucking you in public, like you’re the only thing in focus for him.

And he fell too. You know it because you’ve started to notice the cracks in his teasing and little dramatics. How possessive he gets when other men stare at his paintings of you. How his hand shakes the tiniest bit when he thinks you’re about to come.

Like right now.

He curls his fingers hard against that ridged spot inside you and you jerk, your hips bucking into his hand, your other hand—which was currently not holding your champagne glass—shooting out to grip his forearm under the cover of your shawl.

“R-Rafayel,” you breathe, quiet enough only for him to hear.

He finally glances at you, pink-blue eyes dark and blown and smug as hell. A droplet of sweat slides down his temple, and you guess it’s because the venue got a bit too crowded in the past half hour. He looks devilishly handsome in his black suit, hair slicked back, so different from how he usually wears it. So fucking handsome you could cry, especially with his fingers making that filthy, wet little squelch inside you that only the two of you can hear.

“Yes, baby?” he says sweetly. Too loudly. The critic looks over.

“Is she okay? She looks flushed—”

“She’s fine,” Rafayel muses, and pushes a third finger in alongside the other two, stretching you open, stuffing you full. Your vision whites out. “Just hot. Aren’t you, darling? All hot and... wet.”

You whimper into your glass. Fuck. You’re so wet it’s embarrassing. Since he slid his hand up your thigh ten minutes ago and found your thong already damp, you’ve gotten wetter and wetter, creamy and swollen and dripping around him. You can feel it sliding down your inner thighs, sticking to your skin. Every time his thumb brushes your clit in light, teasing, barely-there circles through your panties pushed aside, your whole body trembles.

He’s edging you. On purpose. In public.

He fucks you with slow, shallow thrusts, just the tips of his fingers dragging in and out, smearing your arousal all over your folds, then plunges deep again to make you clench. Then stops. Lets you throb and flutter and ache around nothing.

You squirm. You can’t help it. Goddamnit. You rock desperately against his palm, trying to get more friction, trying to ride his hand without anyone noticing. Your thighs shake and you keep moving from one heel to the other in hopes of some relief. Your nipples are hard enough to show through your silk dress and you pray no one looks too close.

“Please,” you whisper, so quiet only he hears. “Please, don’t stop, I was so close—”

“Oh, I know.” His thumb presses down hard on your clit and grinds, just once, making your knees buckle. “I felt you, baby. Little pussy was squeezing me so tight, begging to cum. You want to cum right here? Yeah? In front of everyone looking at how good I made you look spread open?”

Yes. God, yes. You nod frantically, champagne sloshing.

Rafayel leans in, pretending to kiss your temple for the crowd. His breath is hot on your ear, smelling like wine, making your head spin.

“Too bad.” he drawls, “You’re not allowed.”

You make a broken little sound in response, but he only smiles against your skin and slows his fingers to an agonizing crawl, just holding them inside you, letting you feel how deep he is, how full. How empty you’ll be when he pulls out.

The critic has moved on to the next painting—you, from behind, in Rafayel’s shower, water running down your spine. Someone laughs behind you and another comments on how erotic and so intimate it is, how the artist must be ‘obsessed with her’.

You notice how Rafayel’s jaw tightens. You’ve noticed this all night—how he keeps one eye on every man who lingers too long on the naked ones. He’s jealous. Possessive. Not of your body being seen—no, he painted you to be seen—but of the idea that anyone else thinks they know you from it. Only he knows how you sound when you come. Only he knows how wet you get when he whispers filth in you.

Only he gets to feel you gush like this.

As if to prove it, he starts again. Fast and filthy. Two fingers pumping hard, thumb flicking your clit in quick, ruthless little circles. The wet sounds are louder now—thick and sloppy. You’re soaking him. You can feel your juices dripping down his wrist, under his cuff.

“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, and for a second the smug mask slips from his face. You catch the raw, almost overwhelmed look on his face. His pupils huge, his breathing shaky. “Baby, you’re creaming all over me. So hot and tight. If I pulled out right now my whole hand would be dripping. Y’want them to see? Want them to know what a filthy little thing you are for me, hm?”

You shake your head, then nod, then shake again. You don’t know. You’re so close you’re going to scream. Pressure coils low and vicious in your belly, walls fluttering violently, sucking at him, trying to drag him deeper inside you.

“Rafy, please, please let me— I’m gonna— baby, I’m gonna—”

He feels you teetering on the edge and—cruel bastard—he stops dead. Fingers still buried deep, thumb pressed flat and unmoving on your throbbing clit.

You nearly sob. You clench and unclench around him, dripping, twitching, desperate just as he said you’d be. Your nails dig crescents into his arm.

“Nuh-huh, not yet,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth, and you can practically taste how proud he is. And underneath, how tender. How he’s holding himself back from throwing you over his shoulder and fucking you in the back room.

“Be good for me. Hold it, yeah? Soak my fingers a little more. When we get home I’m gonna lay you out and eat this pretty pussy until you cum on my tongue screaming my name. But right now… you’re gonna stand here, shaking and soaking, and let everyone think you’re just Mr. Rafayel’s beautiful muse.”

He curls his fingers, just once, in reward. A teasing little promise. As if to make good on his promise. Make a point.

You can only whimper, grinding down helplessly, edged and aching and dripping for him.

Lord help you, you can’t wait for this exhibition to end already.

[lyle ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 @bytherese_]

meu deus FLÁVIO BOLSONARO RECEBEU 134 MILHÕES DO DANIEL VORCARO