Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
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 | OoC Planning Preferred
Welcome fellow creative degenerates! If you're looking for the following: slow-burn, world-building, some colorful logic & physics, bimbofication, and incest then you've come to the right place. Keep on reading!
Okay, listen—you're not gonna believe this. I barely do, and I'm the one who woke up inside it.
I'm twenty-one, stubbornly single, and last night my brain did that late scroll through videos and fantasies and came up empty. Nothing landed. Like I'd lost the thread. I killed the screen, lay there buzzing with static, and somewhere between "what's wrong with me" and "I need new search terms," I fell asleep next to a cheap little brass thing I won at a carnival. Harmless. Keychain energy. A souvenir that looked tired of being touched.
Turns out it wasn't harmless. It was listening.
Dream hits. Not darkness—white. Pearly, nacreous, like the inside of a seashell. Too clean. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that's waiting to echo.
A female outline stands there like a mannequin waiting for a reason. Then, the quiet got loud. Old wants. Half-formed kinks. Boredom. Loneliness. The shameful stuff. The honest stuff. All of it bubbled up at once, a subconscious purge I couldn't stop, even if I tried. Which, I know, feels like a confession but acted like instructions.
First pass: soft. I mean soft. Curvy-chubby in a way that made the light behave—plush belly, bigger hips, thick thighs that invented shade, arms you'd lean into. Cute, devastating. I watched myself want it and let it sit. Then the next wave rolled in—greedier, tuned. Waist pulled tidy, keeping the generosity. Hips kept their authority. Back carved a little canyon. Bust negotiated with gravity and won the case. Legs lengthened until walking would be a spectacle.
Her face caught the overspill—hair black and glossy, mid-back. Skin with its own summer. Lips plumped beyond reason, bubblegum-pink, faintly sticky; every breath she took smelled like spearmint gum and hot days at the boardwalk. Lashes winged; cheekbones arrived with counsel.
And then I do the stupidest, realest, most immature move of my twenty-one-year-old life: I give her feelings.
Not normal, sensible feelings. Unrealistic. Cartoon-big. Porn-logic emotions with their own weather. I drag sliders no engineer signed off on.
Warmth—click—and her breath exits like it's relieved to see me. Curiosity—click—and a spark lights behind her eyes, playful and sharp. Bravery—click—and her spine draws a clean line. Mischief—click—and one corner of her mouth learns to smirk on its own. Desire—click—and color blooms slow along her throat like sunrise. Devotion—click—and the air gets thick with the idea that I matter, specifically me, like a song deciding its favorite listener.
It isn't mind control. Not "say yes to anything." It's orientation. Gravity tilting my way—she can still step off the path, but the path wants her feet.
Clothes land next, because I'm an idiot for details. Not naked. Worse. The mockery of innocent. "Casual" with a mean streak.
Clothes landed in two lies called "casual":
- Frayed denim shorts; cropped low-cut top tossing sun across her midriff; messy bun that took effort to ruin; nude 4-inch platform peep-toe heels with red undersides flashing, French-tipped toes showing off.
- Matte black leggings; ribbed, low-cut tank showing a warm strip of midsection; slouchy cardigan; sky-high cork wedges, wicked pitch, ankle straps snug, French pedicure gleaming.
Then the lights shuttered—black, like a stage going quiet—and the flashes came, too-real to be dream:
Heat in the air, salted skin, bubblegum and perfume braided with warm electricity. Her mouth parted, plush and lewd with honesty, tongue catching light. Eyes heavy-lidded, pupils tight, nostrils flaring on a sweet inhale. The loud, clean metronome of heels—click, click—sharp stiletto biting, platform kissing floor, the arch of her foot screaming its signature like a birthmark. A slow, helpless contortion across her face—pleasure, heat, yes—then—
SNAP.
I wake. Coin warm in my palm, and a pre-cum coating my thick and suffocating cock.
Something strange now awaits..
//
I've woken into a world eerily like mine, just… edited. What changed, and who's holding the pen? There are consequences to unrestrained fantasies. Porn logic works behind glass; what happens when it leaks into daylight? When hentai physics bleed into baseline reality and start negotiating with gravity and taste?
//
And you — wakefulness inside a body curated by someone else's unfiltered honesty. The mirror says "you," the echoes say "almost." Sensations jump the queue; reactions arrive ahead of intention.
Maybe you were always my mom. My aunt. My grandma. My Step Mom. My god-mother. Or maybe you were just some random woman—some poor, normal lady who existed in a world that made sense—until I dreamed you into this one. Until the artifact twisted you.
Now you're here.
Thick thighs. Jaw-dropping ass. Tits so full they drip when you move. Nipples hard as bullets, leaking sweet, sticky milk just from thinking about being touched. You're drenched between the legs—soaked—panties long gone, pussy gushing clear, slick juice down your thighs like you've been fucked for hours when no one's even touched you yet.
This world doesn't play by real rules. It runs on porn physics—wet, messy, insane. You sneeze and your pussy squirts. You bite your lip and your tits spurt cum-like milk across the room. You moan and your ass clenches like it's riding an invisible dick—because in this world, maybe it is.
//
This isn't real. Not our real. But it's ours now. We've slipped into something surreal—something wet, twisted, and gloriously absurd. And the craziest part? We're the only ones who notice. Everyone else moves through this world like it's normal: tits that leak honey-sweet milk when a man looks twice, pussies that gush geysers from just the thought of being touched, cocks that drip rivers of pre-cum like they're advertising for it.
And heels—always the heels—five-inch, back-breaking, ass-lifting heels that click with every step like a porn soundtrack come to life. Why does your nipple squirt bubblegum-flavored cream when I say your name? Why does my cock throb and flood the floor with slick, glossy pre every time you walk? Our reasons. Our Logic
I want to explore this. Not just fuck through it—live in it. I want us to be adventurers in this twisted paradise, wide-eyed and trembling, touching everything like it might explode. I want the fear, the thrill, the gasp when your body betrays you—when your hips grind against the air on their own, when your mouth waters at the sight of my cock, when you realize you like being this depraved, this available. You were someone normal once—maybe my best friend's mom, my aunt, my neighbor—but now you're a Mom. My mom. Or aunt. Or grandmother. Or step-mom. A MILF forged in my subconscious: plump lips, wide hips, a waist that begs to be spanked, and a pussy so sensitive it orgasms from the sound of my zipper. How do you handle it? The flood of new sensations? The fact that you crave the mess, the slime, the shame?
I want rich detail. Slow burns. The shimmer of sweat on your inner thighs. The way your stockings cling to cum-slick skin. The click-click-click of your heels as you walk toward me, knowing you can't say no—even if you wanted to. I love world-building: crafting bodies that defy nature, lactating tits in any color or size, cocks that shoot ropes like firehoses, pussies that swallow and milk with every twitch. Any ethnicity, any fantasy, any function—we can make it real. I want someone who plays, who dresses up.
I write 3–5 tight, filthy paragraphs. I want someone who matches that rhythm, who stays in character, who lives in the fantasy. This isn't a quick scene. I'm looking for mid- to long-term—someone to grow this world with, to push it further, to drown in it together. If you're into deep immersion, shameless hedonism, and the kind of roleplay where every sentence makes you wet… then step into your heels, and come find me.
And heels—always the heels—five-inch, back-breaking, ass-lifting heels that click with every step like a porn soundtrack come to life. Why does your nipple squirt bubblegum-flavored cream when I say your name? Why does my cock throb and flood the floor with slick, glossy pre every time you walk? Our reasons. Our Logic
I want to explore this. Not just fuck through it—live in it. I want us to be adventurers in this twisted paradise, wide-eyed and trembling, touching everything like it might explode. I want the fear, the thrill, the gasp when your body betrays you—when your hips grind against the air on their own, when your mouth waters at the sight of my cock, when you realize you like being this depraved, this available. You were someone normal once—maybe my best friend's mom, my aunt, my neighbor—but now you're a Mom. My mom. Or aunt. Or grandmother. Or step-mom. A MILF forged in my subconscious: plump lips, wide hips, a waist that begs to be spanked, and a pussy so sensitive it orgasms from the sound of my zipper. How do you handle it? The flood of new sensations? The fact that you crave the mess, the slime, the shame?
I want rich detail. Slow burns. The shimmer of sweat on your inner thighs. The way your stockings cling to cum-slick skin. The click-click-click of your heels as you walk toward me, knowing you can't say no—even if you wanted to. I love world-building: crafting bodies that defy nature, lactating tits in any color or size, cocks that shoot ropes like firehoses, pussies that swallow and milk with every twitch. Any ethnicity, any fantasy, any function—we can make it real. I want someone who plays, who dresses up.
I write 3–5 tight, filthy paragraphs. I want someone who matches that rhythm, who stays in character, who lives in the fantasy. This isn't a quick scene. I'm looking for mid- to long-term—someone to grow this world with, to push it further, to drown in it together. If you're into deep immersion, shameless hedonism, and the kind of roleplay where every sentence makes you wet… then step into your heels, and come find me.
So I've piqued your interest. That's awesome, and I can't wait to hear from you. Here are some suggestions when reaching out. First, please do send more than just a one-liner. I put some effort into my post, in such a way to allow you a window into what I'm looking for. So at least you can come with an understanding of what I'm looking for. So take a moment to read or even re-read the entire post.
There is plenty to discuss, so i'd love to hear your ideas to compliment mine! Also, if you enjoy letting/making your characters wear heels, it can only help when reaching out.
There is plenty to discuss, so i'd love to hear your ideas to compliment mine! Also, if you enjoy letting/making your characters wear heels, it can only help when reaching out.
High Heels – The only shoes that exist. Five inches up, ass higher, back arched, pussy dripping. Your body needs them. I need you wearing them.
Outfit Play – Clothes tighten when you're wet. Skirts ride up on their own. Lingerie lives—straps that bind, cups that fill with milk when I look. We play roles—stepmom, nanny, teacher—but the uniform's always the same: heels, lace, and not enough fabric.
Seduction – You're the MILF. But I made you. And your body knows. Nipples harden when I enter. Pussy floods. Hips grind on air. You pretend to resist—your body betrays you.
Dirty Talk – (Sweet, Soft, and Filthy) – This is where it gets dangerous. It's not just growls and slurs. It's mommy's voice—soft, warm, dripping with love… and filth. A whisper that melts and destroys at the same time. "Oh… you're so big… Mommy's so proud of you." "Let me taste you, sweetheart… let Mommy clean you up." "You can cum inside me, darling… Mommy's already full, but I'll take every drop." It's gentle hands saying "Shh, it's okay" while your pussy gushes around my cock. It's tender eyes looking into mine as you moan, "Yes, son… ruin Mommy's ass." It's the cruelest, sexiest contradiction—love and lust, care and corruption, all wrapped in a voice that soothes as it fucks you up. Sweet words. Dirty meaning. Perfect.
Anal / Vaginal / Oral – Your holes don't say no. They pulse, clench, beg. You've never taken cock up the ass—but your body remembers. Your mouth? Built to suck, gag, worship. Cum on your face? You open wide and lick it clean.
Sneaking Around – The risk feeds the fantasy. Your house. My room. A stall in a public bathroom. The closer we are to getting caught, the wetter you get. You squirt just from the sound of footsteps down the hall.
Risky Sex – Of course I'll eat you out while dad watches TV next door. Of course I'll make you scream. You don't just allow it—you demand it. "Do it," you whisper. "Make me come where I shouldn't."
Foot Play – Your feet are sweet. Arches so high they're obscene. Toes painted, flexing, begging to be sucked. A single lick can make you erupt.
Porn/Hentai Logic - . We're running on Porn/Hentai Physics—the ultimate kink, the foundation of everything. Reality is exaggerated, liquid, insane. Bodies react instantly, impossibly: nipples harden and spray cum-like milk with a glance. Pussies gush tidal waves from a whisper, soaking floors, chairs, entire rooms. Cocks don't just get hard—they pulse, drip, flood, pre-cum pouring in thick, glossy ropes just from the sound of a heel clicking. Orgasms don't end—they chain, one after another, until you're drooling, twitching, broken. Time slows during a strip. Sweat glistens like oil. Breasts bounce in slow-mo, jiggling long after the touch. This isn't biology. It's fantasy law.
Outfit Play – Clothes tighten when you're wet. Skirts ride up on their own. Lingerie lives—straps that bind, cups that fill with milk when I look. We play roles—stepmom, nanny, teacher—but the uniform's always the same: heels, lace, and not enough fabric.
Seduction – You're the MILF. But I made you. And your body knows. Nipples harden when I enter. Pussy floods. Hips grind on air. You pretend to resist—your body betrays you.
Dirty Talk – (Sweet, Soft, and Filthy) – This is where it gets dangerous. It's not just growls and slurs. It's mommy's voice—soft, warm, dripping with love… and filth. A whisper that melts and destroys at the same time. "Oh… you're so big… Mommy's so proud of you." "Let me taste you, sweetheart… let Mommy clean you up." "You can cum inside me, darling… Mommy's already full, but I'll take every drop." It's gentle hands saying "Shh, it's okay" while your pussy gushes around my cock. It's tender eyes looking into mine as you moan, "Yes, son… ruin Mommy's ass." It's the cruelest, sexiest contradiction—love and lust, care and corruption, all wrapped in a voice that soothes as it fucks you up. Sweet words. Dirty meaning. Perfect.
Anal / Vaginal / Oral – Your holes don't say no. They pulse, clench, beg. You've never taken cock up the ass—but your body remembers. Your mouth? Built to suck, gag, worship. Cum on your face? You open wide and lick it clean.
Sneaking Around – The risk feeds the fantasy. Your house. My room. A stall in a public bathroom. The closer we are to getting caught, the wetter you get. You squirt just from the sound of footsteps down the hall.
Risky Sex – Of course I'll eat you out while dad watches TV next door. Of course I'll make you scream. You don't just allow it—you demand it. "Do it," you whisper. "Make me come where I shouldn't."
Foot Play – Your feet are sweet. Arches so high they're obscene. Toes painted, flexing, begging to be sucked. A single lick can make you erupt.
Porn/Hentai Logic - . We're running on Porn/Hentai Physics—the ultimate kink, the foundation of everything. Reality is exaggerated, liquid, insane. Bodies react instantly, impossibly: nipples harden and spray cum-like milk with a glance. Pussies gush tidal waves from a whisper, soaking floors, chairs, entire rooms. Cocks don't just get hard—they pulse, drip, flood, pre-cum pouring in thick, glossy ropes just from the sound of a heel clicking. Orgasms don't end—they chain, one after another, until you're drooling, twitching, broken. Time slows during a strip. Sweat glistens like oil. Breasts bounce in slow-mo, jiggling long after the touch. This isn't biology. It's fantasy law.