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LeaveYourHighHeelsOn
Moon
- Joined
- Feb 11, 2025
Long Term | Discord or BM PM friendly | Power Dynamics - Switch/Soft Dom | Long-Form (4-5 paragraphs) | Slow-Burn
The bond between mother and son was supposed to be off-limits, emotionally pure, a foundation. But what happens when that foundation starts to tilt? When we let the nurturing morph into something hungrier? When we let arousal become insidious?
This is about the absurd, messy, fucked-up moment when you realize that the person I thought was safest is the one I can't stop thinking about. Something that shouldn't mean anything—but does.
This is roleplay about that realization. The slow, creeping knowledge that something is shifting, and neither of us is stopping it. There's no sudden confession, no dramatic confession of desire. Just the tension. The buildup. The quiet betrayal of the body. The mind. The heart. This isn't romance, not at all - this is something deeper. There is no perfect ending, just a messy and wet truth.
We're not jumping into bed. We're not ripping clothes off. We're building the pressure until it becomes unbearable. Until the first real touch feels like a breaking point you've been walking toward for years. Let's explore the things that start as accidents but become habits. Let's make it dirty, real, and uncomfortably intimate.
Scene Ideas/Prompts:
You were just my mom—until I found the old stash in the attic: grainy VHS tapes with her name in curly script, her face glowing under cheap studio lights, legs spread wide between two hunks in a hot tub, heels digging into the floor as she rode them like she was born to. I couldn't unsee it. The way she looked into the camera like she knew me, like she was inviting me in. When I confronted her, she didn't blush, didn't flinch—just smiled and asked if I thought she still had it. We had such an open relationship, honest and we were almost like friends. I teased her, saying she'd have to find out by wearing all those outfits again.
She laughed. But then came the ask – 'which ones do you think I could pull off?" she asked. First, it was a game, pointing at outfits, some ridiculous, some not. I wasn't exactly a 'good' son. I kept on pointing at the heels, 'hey why don't you try those on' and each day it got more heated. 5 Inch platform high heels. Sky high wedges. Outfits that were essentially tiny slithers of fabric. Latex. Roleplay outfits. The list went on…
Then finally, we went from outfits to discovering which scenes old and new, we could create.
(Also open to you playing the grandmother or aunt!)
She laughed. But then came the ask – 'which ones do you think I could pull off?" she asked. First, it was a game, pointing at outfits, some ridiculous, some not. I wasn't exactly a 'good' son. I kept on pointing at the heels, 'hey why don't you try those on' and each day it got more heated. 5 Inch platform high heels. Sky high wedges. Outfits that were essentially tiny slithers of fabric. Latex. Roleplay outfits. The list went on…
Then finally, we went from outfits to discovering which scenes old and new, we could create.
(Also open to you playing the grandmother or aunt!)
You were the perfect mom—bubbly, church-going, always baking cookies like some Stepford wife with a halo. But late one night, I found the black card in your nightstand. Not just any card—Platinum. Untraceable. And a name that wasn't yours underneath a booking app on your phone: Madame L. You dressed up for "girls' nights," but those heels—5-inch peep toes, glossy and gold—were never for charity galas. Then came the texts. The wrong photo in the gallery. The slip-up. I saw you in silk, backlit by hotel chandeliers, legs wrapped around some oil tycoon, cock buried deep, eyes locked on the camera like you knew I'd be watching.
Now, you don't bother hiding it. You sway into the kitchen in those same heels, still swollen from a blowjob that wasn't in your schedule until next week. You wink and say grace like nothing's changed. But everything has. I can't look away. You know it. So you play both roles—angel and whore—and make me want both. You ask if I'm okay, voice sweet as candy, while your foot nudges my thigh, nails painted red like the soles of your Christian Louboutins. I lie. You laugh. You whisper, "You've seen the real me now, baby. Why pretend?" And you walk away, hips swaying like they're still on the clock.
Now, you don't bother hiding it. You sway into the kitchen in those same heels, still swollen from a blowjob that wasn't in your schedule until next week. You wink and say grace like nothing's changed. But everything has. I can't look away. You know it. So you play both roles—angel and whore—and make me want both. You ask if I'm okay, voice sweet as candy, while your foot nudges my thigh, nails painted red like the soles of your Christian Louboutins. I lie. You laugh. You whisper, "You've seen the real me now, baby. Why pretend?" And you walk away, hips swaying like they're still on the clock.
You were never really a mom. You left along time ago. Sure, I may have some issues, but I built myself up. Made Money. Status.
And now…look whose back, probably sniffing around for a handout, but dressed like you're hunting something else. You walk in on those 5-inch platform peep toes, like heel are the only things you wear. Your Daisy Dukes barely cover your ass, your tits spill out of that tight shirt, and when you bend to pick up your purse, I see the pink edge of your cunt through the lace of your g-string. You lean in close, all smoke and cheap perfume, thigh pressing against mine, heat radiating. Whispering, "Still mad I left?" like you already know the answer. Or like you don't care. Either way, you're here—and I'm hard.
You ask for cash, same as always, but now you do it straddling the arm of the couch, skirt hiked, nipple peeking over the neckline. You watch me swallow. You like it. Soon, the outfits get worse—or better, depending on who you ask. Fishnets with runs, crop tops stretched tight, ass cheeks hanging out. You wear heels in the bedroom, in the kitchen, in front of me like they're part of your skin. I get caught jerking off one night. You don't yell. You sit beside me, slide your foot into my lap, still in those fuck-me shoes, and say, "If I'm the one you're thinking about… show me." And I do. Because you're not asking like a mother. You're asking like the pornstar I never stopped watching. And I'm starting to think you didn't leave back then—you just waited for me to grow up so you could take something bigger.
(Open for interracial!)
And now…look whose back, probably sniffing around for a handout, but dressed like you're hunting something else. You walk in on those 5-inch platform peep toes, like heel are the only things you wear. Your Daisy Dukes barely cover your ass, your tits spill out of that tight shirt, and when you bend to pick up your purse, I see the pink edge of your cunt through the lace of your g-string. You lean in close, all smoke and cheap perfume, thigh pressing against mine, heat radiating. Whispering, "Still mad I left?" like you already know the answer. Or like you don't care. Either way, you're here—and I'm hard.
You ask for cash, same as always, but now you do it straddling the arm of the couch, skirt hiked, nipple peeking over the neckline. You watch me swallow. You like it. Soon, the outfits get worse—or better, depending on who you ask. Fishnets with runs, crop tops stretched tight, ass cheeks hanging out. You wear heels in the bedroom, in the kitchen, in front of me like they're part of your skin. I get caught jerking off one night. You don't yell. You sit beside me, slide your foot into my lap, still in those fuck-me shoes, and say, "If I'm the one you're thinking about… show me." And I do. Because you're not asking like a mother. You're asking like the pornstar I never stopped watching. And I'm starting to think you didn't leave back then—you just waited for me to grow up so you could take something bigger.
(Open for interracial!)
My mom was always the picture of poise—polished hair, tailored suits, 5-inch Christian Louboutin wedges clicking sharp against the hardwood floors. But after catching Dad mid-thrust with his intern on the dining table, something snapped. She showed up to breakfast the next day barefoot, disheveled, and asked me if I thought she'd lost her edge. I told her the truth: she looked beautiful, even in her mess. That's when she slid her feet into those sky-high platform peep toes she left lying around, arching her spine just to stand, and whispered, "Like this?"
The heels never came off after that. She wore them to the grocery store, to therapy, to the lawyer's office. Each outfit tighter, each strut slower. She'd lean over me in those stilettos, her skirt hiked to her hips, asking if I liked what I saw. Each outfit more provocative, until I found myself aching. I couldn't hold it anymore. I told her I hated how turned on I was. She smiled like she'd been waiting for that confession…..
Now she doesn't ask for opinions. She asks for reactions. And I can't stop giving them.
The heels never came off after that. She wore them to the grocery store, to therapy, to the lawyer's office. Each outfit tighter, each strut slower. She'd lean over me in those stilettos, her skirt hiked to her hips, asking if I liked what I saw. Each outfit more provocative, until I found myself aching. I couldn't hold it anymore. I told her I hated how turned on I was. She smiled like she'd been waiting for that confession…..
Now she doesn't ask for opinions. She asks for reactions. And I can't stop giving them.
You married my dad like it was some kind of conquest—older, religious, conservative. You swept in with your glossy lips and tight skirts, all charm and eyelashes, pretending to be the perfect Stepford bride. Everyone whispered. But you smiled through it, heels always on point, voice honeyed and teasing when you said, "Call me Mom, sweetheart." Like it was a game. Like you wanted me to mean it. But I found your secret—between your legs. That small hard cock hiding beneath lace and silk. You're trans, and suddenly everything made sense. You didn't love him You never did. But you did love his money. And you begged me not to tell. Whispered it through tears, through trembling lips, through the heat of shame—or maybe the thrill of it.
I didn't tell. I started playing instead. You wanted to be Mom? Fine. I called you that while I jerked you off under the couch blanket, pulled away before you could blow. I sucked you slow, deep, until you bucked and begged and whispered, "Please, baby, please." I made you wait. I made you hurt. I made you watch me in the shower, soaping up beside you, letting you touch, but not finish. Your cock would throb under my fingers, leaking pre-cum like a clock ticking toward something dangerous. I'd laugh when it dripped down your thigh. You'd whimper. You'd whisper, "You're evil." I'd smile and say, "You wanted to be my Mom, didn't you?" You nodded. You still do. And I wonder—what did you think the price would be for joining this family? Because now, every night, you kneel for it.
I didn't tell. I started playing instead. You wanted to be Mom? Fine. I called you that while I jerked you off under the couch blanket, pulled away before you could blow. I sucked you slow, deep, until you bucked and begged and whispered, "Please, baby, please." I made you wait. I made you hurt. I made you watch me in the shower, soaping up beside you, letting you touch, but not finish. Your cock would throb under my fingers, leaking pre-cum like a clock ticking toward something dangerous. I'd laugh when it dripped down your thigh. You'd whimper. You'd whisper, "You're evil." I'd smile and say, "You wanted to be my Mom, didn't you?" You nodded. You still do. And I wonder—what did you think the price would be for joining this family? Because now, every night, you kneel for it.
Alright, so you're interested in the scenes - now you're asking, who are you getting into bed right? Right?
Its quite obvious, but I'm looking for someone who'd want to play a mom, grandmother, step-mom, or aunt. I'm eager to build a world in which these prompts can be executed in. I like to be submerged in a roleplay, building out some degree of our backgrounds, a gradual escalation, and enjoying the juxtaposition that some of the scenarios provide. I'm looking for someone who'd be open to some degree of hentai-logic, but not without some proper plot - which may seem a bit strange but in my experience it adds a tremendous amount of enjoyment as we build into smut. Ultimately, I am looking for someone who wants to be turned on and can give it back too.
Also important: this isn't about rigid dom/sub roles. Power exists between our characters,—but it shifts. It flexes with emotion, with context, with what's been revealed. Sometimes one of us leads. Sometimes one of us yields. Sometimes it's voluntary… sometimes it isn't. That unpredictability, that push and pull—that's where the tension lives.
To that end, I do find myself enjoying those who can match my writing/posts - which is anywhere between 3-5 paragraphs. Of course, sometimes I'll be shorter or even higher. I enjoy writing and want to build out this horny and debaucherous world - in which there are plenty of little details to add.
So, if you find yourself still interested - well then please do reach out. I'd love to hear what interested you, what prompts/scenes caught your eye or something else ; ) the most!
KINKS & LIMITS
Kinks - High Heels, Outfit Play, Seduction, Dirty Talk, Incest, Anal, Oral, Creampies, Cum Play, Taboo Locations, Intelligence, Adultery, Sexual Exhaustion, Multiple Partners, Sloppy Seconds, Sneaking Around, Risky Sex,
Maybe - Water Sports
Limits - Violence, Scat, Death, Pain.