Luvsociety - Comunidad

I think I finally understand why praying deeply, and praying often, slowly takes something away from you. Your pride. Because the more you pray, the more you realise how little control you actually have. You keep coming back with the same fears, the same weaknesses, the same mistakes, the same hopes. You ask for forgiveness again. And then one day, somewhere in the middle of that prayer, a thought hits you. How can I keep asking to be forgiven while I am still holding so tightly to what someone else did to me? How can I ask for mercy while refusing to give even a little of it? How can I stand before God with a list of everything I want, while forgetting how much I have already been given? That is what prayer slowly does to you. It makes you look inward. Not at how good you are. At how much you still need to grow. You begin to understand that praying every day does not automatically make you holy. Sometimes it does the opposite. It makes you painfully aware of your own flaws. Your impatience. Your anger. Your ego. The grudges you keep feeding. The mistakes you repeat even after promising yourself you would change. And somewhere in all of that, you begin to understand Mahadev a little differently too. Not only as the one you go to when you need something. But as the one before whom you can stand with nothing hidden. No performance. No pretending. No need to prove that you are good enough. Just you, with all your flaws, your guilt, your anger, your confusion, your devotion. And somehow that itself humbles you. Because the closer you feel to Mahadev, the less interested you become in proving yourself to the world. You stop asking to look powerful. You start asking for the strength to become peaceful. You stop asking to win every battle. You start asking for the wisdom to know which battles are worth fighting. You stop asking only for things outside you to change. You start asking for something inside you to change too. Make me softer. Make me less proud. Help me forgive. Help me love better. Help me recognise what I already have. Help me carry grace without acting like I earned it. Prayer begins to make you smaller in the right way. You stop approaching God like someone who deserves everything. You start approaching Him like someone who needs grace. Someone who needs mercy. Someone who is still learning. Someone who does not have everything figured out. And maybe that is where real humility begins. Not in thinking less of yourself, but in finally understanding that you are no better than the people you judge so easily. You are human too. You fail too. You hurt people too. You need forgiveness too. And when that pride begins to fall away, something else starts changing. You become more grateful. You start noticing the things that were always there. The prayers that were answered so quietly you almost missed them. The people who stayed. The doors that closed and later made sense. The ordinary mornings you once took for granted. The peace that returned slowly. The things you kept calling small until you realised how empty life would feel without them. You begin to see that so much of what you once thought you deserved was actually grace. And that changes the way you pray. You stop asking only for more. You start saying thank you more often. You stop going to Mahadev only with your wishes. Sometimes you simply sit there and say, “I have nothing to ask today. I just wanted to be here.” Maybe that is where devotion changes. When prayer stops being only about receiving. When it becomes surrender. When it becomes gratitude. When it becomes sitting quietly before Mahadev and allowing your ego to become a little smaller, your heart a little softer, and your mind a little calmer. Maybe praying more does not make you holy. Maybe it simply keeps bringing you back to the place where holiness can begin. With love. With gratitude. With surrender. And with the kind of humility that makes you bow before Mahadev and realise that sometimes the greatest blessing is not getting everything you asked for. It is becoming someone better while you were asking.

Come over. Right now. Do not text, do not stall, do not put on anything cute. Walk through the door, lock it, and climb on. I want those thighs around my head like a vice. Heavy, hot, unapologetic. Sit that dripping cunt straight on my mouth and stay there until my jaw locks and my lungs burn. I will eat you like I have been starving for days. Tongue flat first, dragging through every fold, collecting that thick wetness that is already sliding down your inner thighs before you even sit. Then I will push in, deep, fucking you with my tongue while my nose is crushed against your clit. You will feel me trying to breathe and failing. That is the point. Clamp harder when I twitch. Grind down when I moan into you. Use my face. Ride it. Suffocate me on purpose. Your smell will fill everything. That raw, sweet-musk heat that only comes when you are already soaked and getting wetter because I cannot get away. I will swallow what you give me and go back for more. Lips sealed around your clit, sucking in time with the roll of your hips, two fingers sliding into you from below because my mouth is busy drowning. You will feel how hard I am. Cock leaking against my stomach, untouched, because both my hands will be on your ass pulling you down harder, spreading you so I can get deeper. Do not lift up when I start to shake. Do not get kind. When my hands slap your thighs and my body jerks for air, press closer. Let me hear how wet you are from up there, that filthy slick sound every time you drag across my tongue. Talk to me while you do it. Tell me how good my mouth feels when I can barely use it. Tell me you can feel me getting desperate under you. Tell me to keep licking even when my vision spots. I want you to come on my face like that. Thighs locked, weight fully on me, cunt pulsing against my tongue while I drink it. Keep sitting through it. Keep grinding. I will keep eating you through the aftershocks, sloppy and starving, chin shining, nose full of you, until you decide I have earned a breath. Even then, only lift enough for me to gasp once. Then sit back down and start again. Come over and do it. I am already hard just writing this. I want to finish the night with your taste in the back of my throat and the shape of your thighs still burned across my ears🤤💦

Orgasm with fingers only   In this case, vaginal fingering helps us 👌 When there is penetration and caressing of the labia, as well as the clitoris, pussy and sensitive area of the girl's lower abdomen.   The technique is called 'Come to me': - Bringing the babe to maximum arousal, take off her panties and gently lay her on her back - Insert one finger into the pussy and with the other hand caress the abdominal area. - Add a second finger and rotate the hand so that the thumb pads look up - Begin the movement as if you are gesturing towards me. Slowly at first, then faster. - At this time, stimulate the clitoris, belly, nipples with the other hand.   With this kind of fingering, the girl will just 'explode' in orgasm in a few minutes... Trust me 🙌   Try it and give your girl a vivid orgasm 💦

Rain Between Us Kavya landed in Bangalore on a Thursday afternoon when the sky was already turning the colour of wet slate. The air at Kempegowda felt thicker than Mumbai’s, cooler, carrying the smell of rain on laterite and the faint sweetness of rain trees. She had come for a two-day design workshop in Indiranagar and told herself that was the only reason. Aditya had messaged the night before: *Stay at mine. Guest room is ready. No arguments.* His apartment sat on the third floor of an old house converted into four flats off 12th Main, near the 100 Feet Road. High ceilings, red oxide floors in the kitchen, a narrow balcony that looked over a gulmohar that dropped orange petals onto the compound wall. When he opened the door he was in a faded black t-shirt and cotton shorts, hair still damp from a shower. He did not hug her at once. He looked at her for a long second, the way a man looks when he has been thinking about a woman for months and now she is standing in his doorway with a small suitcase and rain still clinging to her hair. “You look tired,” he said. “I look like I sat next to a crying baby for two hours.” He took the suitcase from her hand, set it down, and only then pulled her in. The kiss started polite, the kind you give someone you have history with. It did not stay polite. His mouth opened against hers, slow, tasting the coffee she had drunk at the airport. One hand stayed at the small of her back. The other slid under the damp hem of her kurta and found the warm skin just above her jeans. He did not go further. He just kept his palm there, thumb moving in a small circle, while he kissed her like he had all evening and no workshop in the morning. They cooked together because neither wanted to go out again. He made egg bhurji the way she liked it, extra green chilli, extra coriander. She stood behind him at the stove and linked her arms around his waist, cheek against his shoulder blade. Every few minutes his hand would come back and rest on her thigh, squeezing once, then leaving. The apartment filled with the smell of cumin and wet earth from the open balcony door. After they ate he washed the plates while she sat on the kitchen counter, legs dangling. He dried his hands, walked over, and stepped between her knees. This time the kiss had no politeness left. He pushed her kurta up to her ribs and looked at the plain black bra she had worn for travel. He did not unhook it. He bent and put his mouth on the swell of her breast through the fabric, breathing heat through the cotton until her nipple tightened. His teeth closed gently. She made a small sound and her fingers went into his hair. He stayed there a long time, switching sides, using only his mouth and the pressure of his hands on her waist, until the fabric was damp and she was shifting on the counter. “Not here,” he said against her skin. “I want you lying down.” The bedroom was simple. White sheets, one window open to the sound of traffic and the occasional burst of rain. He undressed her without hurry. Kurta first, then jeans, then the bra. He left her in the black panties and sat back on his heels to look. Kavya was not used to being looked at like that for so long. Most men rushed. Aditya traced the line of her hipbone with one finger, then the crease where thigh met body, then the damp spot already visible on the cotton. “You’re already wet.” “I know.” He hooked his fingers in the sides of the panties and drew them down her legs. When they were off he parted her knees and simply looked again. Then he lowered his head. The first touch of his tongue was flat and slow, from the entrance up to her clit and back, as if he were learning the shape of her all over again. He did not suck yet. He licked in long strokes, pausing every few seconds to breathe against her, to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, to look up at her face. Kavya’s hands fisted in the sheet. Her hips tried to lift. He held them down with one forearm and kept the same unhurried pace until her breathing changed and a thin sound started coming from her throat. Only then did he close his mouth over her clit and suck, gentle at first, then firmer, two fingers sliding into her at the same time. He curled them and found the spot that made her thighs shake. He did not speed up. He stayed there, sucking and stroking in the same rhythm, until she came with her head turned into the pillow and one hand covering her mouth. He kept his mouth on her through it, lighter now, drinking what she gave him. When she could speak she said, “Your turn.” He shook his head. “Not yet. I want you to stay like this a while.” He lay beside her and kissed her, letting her taste herself on his tongue. His cock was hard against her hip, still inside his shorts. She reached for it. He caught her wrist. “Later. I want to take my time with the rest of you first.” He spent the next twenty minutes on her breasts. No rushing there either. He licked around each nipple until it was...

He stood, rinsed both of them, and wrapped her in a towel. They did not go back to the bed immediately. He sat on the closed toilet lid and pulled her into his lap, her back to his chest, and just held her while the rain grew heavier outside. His cock was still hard against the cleft of her ass. Every few minutes he would roll his hips once, a reminder, nothing more. When they returned to the bedroom the sheets were cool. He laid her on her stomach and started at her feet. He had a small bottle of coconut oil in the drawer. He warmed it in his palms and worked it into her calves, the backs of her knees, the heavy muscle of her thighs. When he reached the curve of her ass he used more oil and took his time, thumbs pressing into the crease, spreading her just enough to look, then closing her again. He oiled the small of her back, her shoulders, the nape of her neck. By the time he told her to turn over she was pliant and flushed. He oiled her front the same way. Breasts first, paying attention to the undersides and the nipples that were still tender. Then her stomach. Then he parted her legs and oiled the insides of her thighs, his fingers sliding through her folds, adding the oil to the wetness already there. He did not enter her. He just kept stroking, two fingers on either side of her clit, until she was moving against his hand and asking him, voice gone low, to put it in. He did. This time he stayed on his knees, her legs over his shoulders, and watched himself disappear into her. The oil and her own wetness made the slide filthy and easy. He fucked her like that until her third orgasm of the night rolled through her, longer than the others, her mouth open and silent. Only then did he let himself go. He dropped forward, buried his face in her neck, and came inside her with a groan that sounded like it had been held for weeks. They lay still for a long time after. Rain continued on the balcony. Somewhere a two-wheeler went past on the wet road. Aditya’s hand rested on her stomach, possessive and quiet. Later, much later, when the rain had slowed to a drizzle, he woke her by kissing down her spine. They did not speak. He turned her onto her side, lifted her top leg, and entered her from behind, one arm around her waist, the other hand between her legs, two fingers on her clit. It was slower than before, almost lazy, the kind of fucking that happens when two people have already taken the edge off and now want to stay joined. He talked less. He just breathed against her neck and moved inside her until she came one last time, smaller, almost private, and he followed a minute after. In the morning the workshop felt like something that belonged to a different woman. Kavya sat in the back row of the hall in Indiranagar and crossed her legs carefully. She was still sore in the best way. Every time she shifted she felt the faint ache and the memory of his mouth and the oil and the way he had looked at her on the kitchen counter. At lunch she stepped outside and messaged him. *I can still feel you.* He replied within a minute. *Good. Don’t wash it off. I want you smelling like last night when you come back.* She went back to the session with her thighs pressed together and a slow heat already starting again low in her belly. The city outside continued its ordinary Thursday: autos, filter coffee, the smell of rain that had not quite finished. Inside her the night was still happening, scene after scene, none of them finished.

Happy Rakshabandhan 🌺❤️

You remember what I love, and I remember the things you quietly dislike. Maybe that is one of the purest forms of love. Not just knowing someone’s favourite song, food, place, or colour. But knowing what makes them go silent. What makes them uncomfortable. What kind of day makes them withdraw. What kind of words stay with them longer than they admit. To love someone is to pay attention. To notice. To remember. To know what makes their heart lighter, and what makes it heavy. You remember the little things that make me smile. And I remember the things that make your world feel a little harder. So when life gets too much for you, I don’t want you fighting it alone. You don’t need to explain every storm before I stand beside you. You don’t need to tell me exactly what happened before I decide to stay. You don’t have to look strong for me. If tonight feels heavy, I’ll stay until it feels a little softer. If your mind gets too loud, I’ll sit with you until the noise settles. If you don’t feel like talking, then we won’t talk. I’ll still be there. Because love is not only being there when someone is easy to understand. It is learning the parts of them that are complicated too. Knowing what hurts them and becoming careful with it. Knowing what scares them and never using it against them. Knowing when they need reassurance, when they need silence, and when they simply need someone close enough to remind them that they are not carrying everything alone. You have spent enough nights trying to be strong by yourself. Enough time standing in storms and pretending the rain doesn’t hurt. You don’t have to do that with me. On your best days, I’ll celebrate every part of you. On your worst ones, I’ll sit beside you without making you feel guilty for having them. And if all you can do some days is survive the day, then I’ll never ask you to be more than that. Maybe this is what love really comes down to. To know someone deeply. To remember what they never thought anyone would notice. To protect the parts they trusted you enough to reveal. To see through every smile, every silence, every “I’m fine.” And still choose them. Again and again. So if one day the whole world feels too heavy, you don’t have to ask whether I’ll stay. I want you to already know the answer. I see you. The soft parts. The difficult parts. The tired parts. The parts you hide from everyone else. All of you. And I’m still here.

Bro I think you’re mixing up orgasm and ejaculation. They’re not the same thing in women. A girl can orgasm completely normally without any fluid coming out. Some get wetter, some release a little fluid, some may squirt, and some have almost nothing noticeable at all. So fluid is not the proof that she came. If she’s telling you she’s close and then says she came, don’t keep waiting for some visible ejaculation like it happens with men. You may notice her breathing change, body getting tense, pelvic contractions, suddenly becoming very sensitive or wanting you to slow down or stop after that, but even these things are different for every girl. Best thing is just talk to her. Ask her what she actually feels when she orgasms and what feels best for her. That will tell you much more than checking for fluid. Ссылка скрыта

Bro if it’s only happening in cowgirl and you’re fine in other positions, I wouldn’t overthink it. That position can just be way more stimulating because she controls the rhythm and you don’t have the same control over pace. Just tell her to start slower. If you feel you’re getting too close, pause for a bit, change the rhythm, breathe properly and relax your body instead of tensing everything trying to stop yourself. Even a slightly thicker condom can help if sensitivity is the main issue. And don’t make sex into a timing competition. If both of you are enjoying it, that matters more than proving you can last some fixed number of minutes. If you’re finishing very quickly in almost every position regularly and you genuinely can’t control it, then yeah, that’s something worth looking into. But from what you’re describing, it sounds more like cowgirl just hits you harder than the others. Ссылка скрыта