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El canal Luvsociety (@luvsocietty) en el segmento lingüístico de Inglés es un actor destacado. Actualmente la comunidad reúne a 11 629 suscriptores, ocupando la posición 26 302 en la categoría Erótico y el puesto 32 946 en la región India.
📊 Métricas de audiencia y dinámica
Desde su creación el невідомо, el proyecto ha mostrado un crecimiento acelerado, reuniendo a 11 629 suscriptores.
Según los últimos datos del 07 octubre, 2026, el canal mantiene una actividad estable. En los últimos 30 días la variación de miembros fue de -233, y en las últimas 24 horas de -7, conservando un alto alcance.
- Estado de verificación: No verificado
- Tasa de interacción (ER): El promedio de interacción de la audiencia es 16.64%. Durante las primeras 24 horas tras publicar, el contenido suele obtener 4.29% de reacciones respecto al total de suscriptores.
- Alcance de las publicaciones: Cada publicación recibe en promedio 1 937 visualizaciones. En el primer día suele acumular 499 visualizaciones.
- Reacciones e interacción: La audiencia responde de forma activa: el promedio de reacciones por publicación es 23.
- Intereses temáticos: El contenido se centra en temas clave como intimacy, leg, comfort, erection, pleasure.
📝 Descripción y política de contenido
El autor describe el recurso como un espacio para expresar opiniones subjetivas:
“Official telegram channel of luvsociety ✨♥️
Anonymous Chat bot :- @luvhivebot
Any questions dm @luvsocietybot
https://t.me/addstickers/luvsociety
Social site:- luvhive.in”
Gracias a la alta frecuencia de actualizaciones (últimos datos recibidos el 08 octubre, 2026), el canal mantiene la vigencia y un amplio alcance. La analítica demuestra que la audiencia interactúa activamente con el contenido, lo que lo convierte en un punto de referencia dentro de la categoría Erótico.
11 629
Suscriptores
-724 horas
-617 días
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1 937
Visitas de la publicación
~ 49924 horas
~ 66448 horas
16.64%
Tasa de compromiso
~ 1
Mensajes por día
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Publicaciones del Canal
| 2 |  Fav 🌺♥️ | 809 |
| 3 | Pushing someone to their breaking point
and then shaming them for breaking
is not a misunderstanding.
When it happens again and again,
it is a pattern.
They poke the wound.
They dismiss what hurts you.
They cross the same boundary they already know exists.
They provoke, withdraw, insult, ignore, twist your words,
and keep going until something inside you finally snaps.
Then suddenly,
the entire story begins at your reaction.
Not at what they did before it.
Not at the disrespect.
Not at the pressure.
Not at the hours of being dismissed.
Not at the hundred small cuts that came before the bleeding.
Only your anger matters now.
Only your raised voice.
Only the moment you finally said something harsh,
walked away,
cried,
or became someone you barely recognized.
And just like that,
the person who pushed you there
becomes the victim of your reaction.
That is the cruel part.
They erase the road
and point only at the crash.
They tell people how badly you reacted,
but never how relentlessly you were pushed.
They call you unstable
after repeatedly destabilizing you.
They call you cruel
after exhausting every gentle version of you.
They ask,
“Why are you like this?”
as if they were not standing there
while you were slowly becoming this.
And eventually,
you begin questioning yourself too.
Maybe I overreacted.
Maybe I am the problem.
Maybe I am too sensitive.
Maybe I should have stayed calmer.
And that self-doubt
is where manipulation becomes most dangerous.
Because once you are busy defending your reaction,
you stop examining what caused it.
This does not mean every emotional reaction is automatically justified.
But repeatedly provoking someone,
hurting them,
ignoring their boundaries,
waiting for them to break,
and then using that breakdown as evidence against them
is not healthy conflict.
It is control.
It is blame-shifting.
It is making someone bleed
and then criticizing them for staining the floor.
The rawest truth is this:
Some people do not want resolution.
They want a reaction.
Because your reaction gives them a weapon.
It allows them to forget everything they did before it
and say,
“See? This is who you really are.”
No.
Sometimes who you were in that moment
was simply the version of you
that had finally run out of places to put the pain.
And anyone who repeatedly pushes you toward that edge
then mocks you for falling
was never trying to understand you.
They were trying to make your breaking point
look like your character. | 831 |
| 4 | Ghoorne wale kya jaane
nihaarna kya hota hai.
Ghoorna bas aankhon ka ruk jaana hai,
nihaarna dil ka thehar jaana.
Kisi ko dekhna alag baat hai,
aur kisi ke chehre par waqt bhool jaana alag.
Uski aankhon mein sirf rang nahi dikhte,
kabhi sukoon dikhai deta hai,
kabhi shararat,
kabhi woh baatein jo usne kabhi kahi hi nahi.
Uske chehre ki khoobsurti bhi ajeeb si hai
aisi nahi jo bas pehli nazar mein pasand aa jaaye,
balki aisi jo har baar dekhne par
kuch naya chhod jaaye.
Kabhi uske baal chehre par aa jaate hain
toh mann karta hai hawa se shikayat karun.
Kabhi woh bina wajah muskura deti hai
toh lagta hai jaise duniya ne
kuch pal ke liye shor karna band kar diya ho.
Aur jab woh nazrein jhuka leti hai,
tab samajh aata hai
ki khoobsurti hamesha saamne dekhne mein nahi hoti,
kabhi-kabhi us nazar ko dekhne mein hoti hai
jo aapse bachne ki koshish kar rahi ho.
Nihaarna shayad isi ko kehte hain
use dekhna,
bina use bechain kiye.
Uski khoobsurti ko mehsoos karna,
bina us par haq jataye.
Uske chehre ko yaad rakhna,
sirf isliye nahi ki woh khoobsurat hai,
balki isliye
ki us chehre ko dekh kar
aapke andar kuch khoobsurat ho jaata hai.
Ghoorne wale kya jaane
nihaarna kya hota hai.
Woh sirf chehra dekhte hain.
Aur hum?
Hum toh us ek chehre mein
apni poori duniya dekh lete hain. | 849 |
| 5 | When you love someone more than they know how to receive,
they often end up hurting you in places they never even learned existed.
Not always because they are cruel.
Sometimes simply because you handed them parts of yourself
they did not have the emotional depth to hold carefully.
And that is the danger of loving someone deeply.
You do not only give them your affection.
You give them access.
To your softness.
Your fears.
Your history.
The things you pretend do not hurt anymore.
The places inside you that took years to become gentle again.
And once someone knows where your heart is most fragile,
even their indifference begins to land differently.
So you forgive more than you should.
You explain their behaviour to yourself.
Maybe they are tired.
Maybe they are scared.
Maybe they have never been loved properly.
Maybe they need time.
Maybe tomorrow will be different.
You become so good at understanding them
that eventually you stop noticing
how rarely they try to understand you.
You stay.
Not because nothing hurts,
but because you keep believing the pain has meaning.
You mistake endurance for devotion.
You call inconsistency “complicated.”
You call emotional absence “a difficult phase.”
You call the bare minimum “effort”
because accepting the truth would mean admitting
that someone you would have crossed oceans for
would not cross a room when you needed them.
And perhaps that is where love becomes dangerous.
Not when you feel too much.
But when your feelings become the excuse
for tolerating too little.
The saddest part is that they may never understand
what they were actually given.
They may remember the day you finally became distant,
but forget the hundreds of days
you moved closer while hurting.
They may remember the one night you lost your patience,
but not every night you swallowed your disappointment
because you did not want to make their life heavier.
They may remember your anger.
They may never remember
how much grief came before it.
They will say,
“You changed.”
And perhaps you did.
But they will never know
how many versions of yourself you buried
trying not to.
That is the strange cruelty of being the one who loves harder.
People often notice your breaking point
without ever noticing what kept breaking you.
They see the final silence.
Not the thousand conversations
you had with yourself before choosing it.
They see you walk away.
Not all the times you stayed
while some quiet part of you was already leaving.
And maybe that is the hardest lesson:
You can give someone your whole heart
and still discover
that love does not automatically teach a person
how to hold what they have been given.
Your sincerity cannot create depth in someone else.
Your loyalty cannot make them emotionally available.
Your patience cannot turn avoidance into commitment.
Your love cannot do another person's growing for them.
And yet, when you love someone deeply,
you keep believing that because you would never intentionally hurt them,
they must carry the same invisible rules inside them.
You think:
Because I would notice, they will notice.
Because I would stay, they will stay.
Because I would never make them question their place in my life,
they would never make me question mine.
But love does not make two people identical.
And sometimes the most painful discovery is not
that someone stopped loving you.
It is realizing
they may have loved you only as deeply
as they were capable of loving anyone.
Which was simply not deep enough for the way you loved them.
That does not make your love foolish.
But it does make one thing painfully clear:
Love was never the mistake.
The mistake was abandoning yourself
to keep proving it.
The mistake was believing that your willingness to give more
meant you were supposed to survive on less.
The mistake was assuming
that because you would protect their heart with both hands,
they would instinctively know
not to handle yours carelessly.
And eventually, something inside you changes.
You stop asking,
“Why wasn't I enough?”
and begin asking,
“Why did I keep trying to earn
what I was already giving freely?”
That question changes everything.
Because then you understand:
You were not asking for too much.
You were asking for reciprocity
from someone who had grown comfortable receiving without returning.
You were asking to be considered
the way you considered them.
To be reassured
the way you reassured them.
To be chosen
with the same certainty
with which you kept choosing them.
And perhaps the cruelest part of all is this:
Some people do not break your heart
because they hate you.
They break it because somewhere along the way,
your forgiveness taught them
that losing pieces of you
would never mean losing all of you.
They believed you would stay.
They believed you would understand.
They believed your love would survive
whatever they failed to protect.
Until one day, it did not.
And that is the part they rarely expect.
Not that you stopped loving them.
But that you finally learned
loving someone and remaining available to be hurt by them
are not the same thing.
Sometimes you leave
with the love still intact.
You simply stop sacrificing yourself
to prove it exists. | 878 |
| 6 | To read the remaining 4 parts, open my HiddenQuill website. You can read this story without any sign-in or signup, and enjoy it with wetness or hardness.
https://t.me/HiddenQuillbot?startapp=story_QBvFs5VvoqcI | 838 |
| 7 | He kept his fingers in her and kissed the hinge of her jaw. She turned her head enough that he could catch her mouth, awkward, sideways, a slow kiss that tasted like sleep. She bit his lower lip when he curled his fingers again. He laughed into the kiss and did it harder, thumb rubbing her clit in the same rhythm, and she broke the kiss to gasp.
“Arjun. Please.”
“Please what.”
“You know.”
“Say it.”
She was quiet for a second, breathing, his fingers buried to the knuckle, his cock throbbing against her ass. The fan ticked. A wave hit the shore and pulled back.
“Put your mouth on me,” she said. “I want to feel your tongue. I want to come like that.”
He pulled his fingers out slow so she felt every inch leave, and she made a wounded sound at the loss. He rolled her onto her back. She went, hair across the pillow, eyes half open, mouth soft, one knee falling wide without him asking. The morning light cut across her breasts. Her nipples were tight, brown and peaked, shining a little where his fingers had brushed them earlier. He bent and took one in his mouth while his wet hand rested on her stomach, not rushing down, just letting her feel the proof of herself on his skin. She arched. Her hand found his hair and held on.
He sucked until the nipple was swollen and tender, then moved to the other and did the same, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make her stomach jump. His cock hung heavy between them, dripping onto her thigh. He did not grind. He wanted his mouth on her before he took anything else. He kissed down the center of her. Her stomach fluttered under his lips. He kissed the dip of her navel, the soft skin above her mound, the inside of one thigh, and then he settled between her legs and looked at her.
Swollen. Pink. Wet enough that it caught the light, a thin shine at her opening, her clit peeking from under the hood. He spread her with his thumbs and just breathed on her, and she whimpered.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“Because you’re staring.”
“Because you’re beautiful like this. Open. Dripping on my fingers a minute ago. I could stay here all morning.”
He held his fingers up so she could see how they shone, then licked them clean, eyes on hers, and groaned at the taste. Meher’s thighs tried to close. He pushed them wider, hooked her knees over his shoulders, and lowered his mouth.
The first lick was flat and long, from the wet opening up over her clit, and she cried out, one hand flying to his hair. He did it again. And again. Slow, hungry, letting her hear the sound he made against her, a low moan that vibrated straight into her. He wanted her to know. He wanted her soaked and certain that he was losing his mind on the taste of her. She tasted like sleep and salt and the sweet thick slick he had been building with his hand, and he licked it up like he had been waiting all week, which he had.
He sealed his mouth over her clit and sucked, gentle, then firmer, tongue flicking under the hood while two fingers slid back into her and curled. Meher’s back came off the bed. She was loud now, Sunday morning be damned, the neighbor be damned, her heel digging into his shoulder, her pussy clenching and fluttering and getting wetter with every stroke of his tongue. He moaned into her again, filthy and grateful, and fucked her with his fingers while he licked, not chasing the finish, keeping her right on the climb.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped. “Don’t you dare stop. I’m close. Arjun, I’m so close, you feel so good, your mouth, fuck, your mouth.”
He eased the suck just enough to speak, lips still on her.
“Not yet,” he said, and licked her slow, one long stroke, while his cock leaked against the sheet and the light kept moving up her body. “I’m not done tasting you. You can come when I say. Stay right here.”
Her fingers tightened in his hair. She cursed him, soft, wrecked, and did not let go. | 812 |
| 8 | Part 1: The Light on Her Shoulder
The fan turned slow over the bed. Sunday in Juhu, and the sea was already in the room, a salt breath through the half-open window, the curtain lifting and falling like it had nowhere else to be. Somewhere below, a pressure cooker whistled in another flat and died. A crow barked once on the water tank and went quiet. Arjun woke to the weight of Meher’s thigh over his. She slept on her side, back to his chest, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other loose on the sheet. Her kurta from last night was on the chair, the dupatta slipped to the floor in a pale heap. She had nothing on now but the thin cotton shorts she slept in, and those had ridden up in the night until the curve of her ass sat warm against him.
He did not move at first. He liked this part. The city still quiet enough that he could hear the waves if he held his breath, and under that the small sound she made when she dreamed, not quite a word. Her hair smelled of the coconut oil she put in on Saturdays, and of sleep, and of the soap she used on her neck. He pressed his mouth to the place behind her ear and stayed there, not kissing yet, just breathing her in until his cock thickened against the soft give of her.
The sheet had twisted around his calf. Sun came in at a slant and laid a bar of light across her shoulder, then across the inside of his wrist where it rested on her waist. He watched the dust move in that light. He watched the slow rise of her back. Meher shifted. Her hips rolled back once, sleepy, and found him. She made a low sound in her throat, the kind she made when a dream turned and she did not want to leave it.
“It’s early,” she said. Her voice was rough with sleep.
“It’s Sunday.”
“Same thing.”
He smiled against her neck. His hand slid from her waist to the bare skin under the hem of her shorts, palm flat, not pushing, just resting where her stomach dipped. She was warm there. Always warm. He felt her stomach pull in when his thumb stroked once, slow, following the faint line below her navel. Last night they had eaten late, pav and the last of the fish from the dabba her mother sent, and she had fallen asleep with her cold feet on his shin. Those feet were warm now. Everything about her was warm.
“Arjun.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re hard.”
“You did that.”
She laughed, quiet, and the laugh turned into a sigh when he kissed the slope of her shoulder. The skin there tasted faintly of salt, as if the window had been putting the sea on her all night. He did not rush it. He had learned her on mornings like this, the way she pretended she wanted ten more minutes and then opened her legs a little when his hand moved lower. He kissed the knob of her spine. He kissed the place where her hair stuck to her nape. His cock rested heavy in the cleft of her ass, separated from her by thin cotton and nothing else, and every time she breathed he felt it.
“Five more minutes,” she said.
“You can have them. I’m not going anywhere.”
His palm stayed on her stomach. He spread his fingers so the heel of his hand sat just above the waistband and his fingertips reached the underside of her breast through the sheet that had slipped. She was not wearing a bra. She never did, not to sleep. He cupped her without squeezing, just holding the soft weight, and felt her nipple tighten against his finger before he had even circled it. Meher made a small impatient sound and pushed her chest into his hand.
“That’s not five minutes.”
“That’s me saying good morning.”
He rolled her nipple between finger and thumb, light, until it peaked, then left it and did the same to the other, reaching across her body, his chest pressed to her back so she could feel the length of him. She was quieter when he touched her like this. Less jokes. Her breath went longer. He slipped his fingers under the waistband at last and found her already soft, the fine hair there, the heat. Not wet yet. Just waking, the way she was. He rested his hand over her mound and did not part her. He wanted her to ask for it with her hips before he took it.
Outside, a scooter went past on the road below and faded toward the signal. The curtain lifted. Sun found the sheet and the line of her hip and the place where his wrist disappeared into her shorts. He watched that. He liked watching his own hand on her, even when he could not see all of it, the way her stomach tightened when he stroked the hair and did not go lower.
Meher reached back and found his thigh. She held on.
“You’re staring at the window.”
“I’m staring at you.”
“Same view.”
“Better view.”
She laughed again, smaller this time, and rolled her hips back into his cock on purpose. The cotton dragged. He hissed against her ear and she did it again, a slow grind, half asleep and already mean about it. His hand tightened on her. He eased the shorts down on one side, then the other, and she lifted her hips to help him, still heavy with sleep, and he worked them off her legs and dropped them somewhere past the edge of the bed. Then she was bare against him, and he fitted himself along her back again, his cock resting in the cleft of her ass, heavy and hot, the head nudging at the top of her thighs. He did not push in. He rocked, a small drag of skin on skin, and felt her breath change.
His hand came around and cupped her. He held her like that, full in his palm, and kissed the back of her neck while his middle finger parted her, slow, learning the shape of her again. She was warmer inside the fold. He stroked once, from the soft place below her clit up to the hood, and back down, and she made a sound that was not a word.
“There,” she said.
“I know.”
He did it again. Light. The pad of his finger only. He could feel her swelling under the touch, a small shift, the way her body answered before her mouth did. He circled her clit and did not quite touch the tip of it. Meher’s toes curled against his shin. She turned her face into the pillow and breathed out through her mouth.
“Don’t tease.”
“I’m not teasing. I’m having you.”
He pressed a little firmer. Her clit swelled under the pad of his finger, a small hard pearl, and he rubbed it in slow circles while his cock slid against her ass, wetting itself on nothing but the heat of her. She got slick faster than she admitted she would. He felt it when he dipped lower, the first thin shine, and he gathered it and brought it up and spread it over her clit until his finger moved easy. The sound was small. Wet. Private. He did it again so she would hear it.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
“Sunday,” he said again, and smiled into her shoulder.
He slid one finger into her. Just the first knuckle, then the second, and she clenched around him, hot and already wetter than a minute ago. He held it there and curled, a small beckon against the front wall, and her hips jerked back into him. His cock dragged through the beginning of the mess between her cheeks. He was so hard it ached, the head flushed, a bead of him smearing on her skin every time she moved. He did not chase it. He kept his finger inside her and his mouth on her neck and let her fuck herself back in tiny sleepy rocks until the wet sound got louder.
“More,” she said.
He gave her a second finger. Slow. He worked them in until his palm sat flush against her and his thumb could still reach her clit, and then he fucked her with his hand in short, deep strokes, the wet sound filthy in the quiet room. Meher turned her face into the pillow and moaned, open, not hiding it. He loved that. He loved when she stopped being polite about it. Her pussy gripped him on every withdraw and fluttered when he curled. Slick ran down to the heel of his hand. He could smell her now, salt and sleep and the sweet musk that meant she was past pretending.
“Listen to you,” he said against her ear. “So wet already. I haven’t even put my mouth on you.”
“Then do it.”
“Not yet.” | 808 |
| 9 | Some doodles I did to remind myself that no matter what happens love will always be with me, even if its just a small amount of self love♥️ | 795 |
| 10 | A Message for You
The most vibrant relationships are the ones where both people aren’t afraid to be themselves:
a little daring, a little tender, and completely authentic.
It’s in those moments of honesty playful teasing, soft touches, shared vulnerability that connection sparks and desire deepens.
Because real intimacy doesn’t come from perfection.
It comes from courage, presence, and being unapologetically you. | 801 |
| 11 | When someone truly cares,
effort doesn’t have to be begged for.
They make time.
They communicate.
They fix what they can.
They show up, even when it’s inconvenient.
Because people naturally protect
what they’re afraid to lose.
And sometimes, the absence of effort
says more than all the beautiful words ever could.
Care is not only something you feel.
It is something you repeatedly choose to prove🌺 | 784 |
| 12 | I'd bury my face between your thighs and moan into your pussy the second I taste you, loud enough that you feel it against your clit.
Slow, hungry licks, then I'd groan again, deeper, like I can't help it. Like you're that fucking good.
I'd keep my mouth on you and let you hear every sound, wet and desperate, so you know exactly how yummy you are while I eat you until your legs shake🤤 | 820 |
| 13 | Sorry, I can’t do casual connections.
I need something that feels older than this lifetime.
Something that feels like recognition before introduction,
like we’ve crossed paths in a hundred different lives
and somehow kept finding our way back to each other.
I don’t want temporary comfort.
I want the kind of connection that makes you wonder
whether meeting was ever really an accident.
Like somewhere, in some other lifetime,
we promised
“Find me again.”
And somehow, we did. | 942 |
| 14 | I'd grab you by the hair and bend you over, face down, ass up, and spit on your pussy before I even touch you. Two fingers shoved in rough, curling hard, fucking you open while you drip down my wrist.
I'd pull them out and slap your cunt, once, twice, until you're shaking and soaked, then line my cock up and slam in to the hilt. No warning. Just deep, brutal thrusts that knock the air out of you.
I'd grip your hips hard enough to bruise and fuck you like I own you, balls slapping your clit, telling you to take every inch. That this pussy is mine to wreck. That I want you crying and creaming on my cock.
I'd reach under and rub your clit mean and fast while I pound you, not letting you pull away, forcing you to cum hard around me, squirting down my thighs while I keep fucking you through it, rough and filthy, until you're a mess and I'm still not done. | 996 |
| 15 | I'd shove your legs apart and bury my face in your pussy before you can even catch your breath. Tongue flat, then pointed, licking you open until you're dripping down my chin and grinding on my mouth like you can't help it.
I'd suck your clit and slide two fingers in, then three, fucking you with them hard while I tell you how fucking soaked you are. How I can hear it. How your cunt is already sucking me in because it knows what's coming.
I'd pull my fingers out, slap your wet pussy once, and make you watch how it shines. Then I'd spit on it, rub it in, and shove my cock in to the base in one rough stroke.
No slow. No gentle. Just deep, filthy thrusts while I hold your throat and fuck you through it, telling you to take it, to cum on me, to soak my cock until it's dripping down your ass and you're still begging for more. | 1 028 |
| 16 | I'd get you alone and not even fuck you yet. I'd put you on your back, push your thighs open, and just look at you while I drag two fingers through how wet you already are.
I'd tell you I can feel it. How messy you get when you want it. How your pussy clenches around nothing because you're already aching to be filled.
I'd rub your clit slow, then slip those fingers in and curl them until your hips jerk. Keep them there. Keep talking in your ear about how I'm going to stretch you open and stay buried so deep you soak the sheets.
I'd make you say it. That you need it. That you're dripping for me. Then I'd pull my fingers out, slick and shining, and make you watch me taste you before I finally push my cock in and fuck you until you're shaking and dripping down my balls. | 921 |
| 17 | Kuch logon ko aapse pyaar hota hai.
Aur kuch logon ko
aapke pyaar se.
Dono mein farq shuruat mein samajh nahi aata.
Dono aapko yaad karte hain.
Dono aapse baat karna chahte hain.
Dono aapke paas rehna chahte hain.
Dono kehte hain,
“Tumhare bina ajeeb sa lagta hai.”
Aur shayad isi liye
hum aksar galat samajh lete hain
ki jo humein miss karta hai,
woh humein hi miss karta hai.
Har baar aisa nahi hota.
Kabhi-kabhi koi aapko nahi,
woh version miss karta hai
jo aap uske saath hote the.
Woh attention.
Woh fikr.
Woh bina maange samajh lena.
Woh raat ke do baje tak jagna.
Woh har baar pehle message kar dena.
Woh unki khamoshi ka bhi matlab samajh lena.
Unhe aadat aapki nahi hoti.
Unhe aadat hoti hai
aapke pyaar mein milne wali uss jagah ki
jahan unhe kabhi khud ko akela mehsoos nahi karna padta tha.
Aur phir ek din
aap thoda kam dena shuru kar dete ho.
Kam poochte ho.
Kam samjhate ho.
Kam rukte ho.
Kam manaate ho.
Bas dekhne ke liye nahi,
shayad thak kar.
Aur wahi se sach dheere-dheere saamne aata hai.
Jise aapse pyaar tha,
woh aapki khamoshi mein bhi aapko dhoondhega.
Jise aapke pyaar se pyaar tha,
woh aapke badalte hi
aapko badla hua keh dega.
Usse lagega
aap pehle jaise nahi rahe.
Par shayad aap badle nahi the.
Shayad pehli baar
aapne bas pyaar dena thoda kam kiya tha,
aur usse pehli baar pata chala
ki woh kis cheez se juda hua tha.
Aapse?
Ya uss ehsaas se
jo aap uske andar paida karte the?
Ajeeb hai na
Kabhi-kabhi do log alag nahi hote
kyunki pyaar khatam ho gaya.
Kabhi-kabhi bas itna hota hai
ki ek insaan ko doosre se pyaar tha,
aur doosre ko
us pyaar mein milne wali apni tasalli se.
Aur sabse khaufnaak baat?
Jab tak aap pyaar dete rehte ho,
dono bilkul ek jaise dikhte hain.
Farq tab samajh aata hai
jab aapke paas dene ke liye
kuch der ke liye kuch bhi nahi bachta.
Tab pata chalta hai
kaun aapke paas tha.
Aur kaun
sirf aapke pyaar ke paas. | 978 |
| 18 | The amount of people I’ve seen lose their intelligence, confidence, ambition, spark, you name it, by having people in their life who do not match where they are at, simply because they were trying to fill some other void, is daunting
How are you dating someone you can’t even have conversations with? So important | 902 |
| 19 | I'd pull you into my lap and keep you there, hands on your waist, making you grind slow while I kiss your throat.
I'd let you feel how hard I am under you, not rushing, just holding you down so every roll of your hips drags right where you need it.
When you start shaking I'd lift you just enough to sink in, deep and full, staying still so you feel every inch before I let you move.
I'd whisper against your mouth that I want you like this, riding me, soaking me, taking it until you can't stay quiet.
Then I'd grip your hips and fuck up into you, slow at first, then harder, kissing you through it so you cum on me while I'm still buried inside. | 923 |
| 20 | I'd get between your legs and take my time, licking you slow, tongue wet and flat, tasting you until your hips start chasing my mouth.
I'd hold you down when you get restless, sucking you deeper, letting you feel how badly I want every inch of you on my tongue.
When you get close I'd stay right there, mouth tight around you, taking you to the back of my throat so you cum deep, thick and hot, pulse after pulse.
I'd swallow all of it. Not a drop wasted. Licking you clean after, soft and filthy, until you're shaking and oversensitive and still in my mouth.
Then I'd come up and kiss you, open and slow, so you taste yourself on my tongue while I hold your face and don't let you look away. | 914 |
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