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Letting others get off to your pics and vids

Charlotte_Sin said:
I have deep exhibitionist tendencies. These have lead me to post pics and videos of myself on various porn sites as well as get into web camping.

Just knowing that people are touching themselves and getting off to my submissions anonymously is a huge turn on. I like it even better when they let me know that my posts made them cum.

Anyone else feel this way?
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I have both very strong exhibitionist turn on and voyeur desires. I first got how strong my responses are my first time at a sex club. Nervous and really unsure about being there, I came alive in the group playroom. Watching and being watched was like waking up to colors I had yet to experience up to that point. Now, I like to cam and be watched on AFF for my arousal. I love that people are watching me, and I get to read responses that heighten my experience. Love camming with someone else or a group as we play and warch. SO hot!
 
Playfulsteph said:
I have both very strong exhibitionist turn on and voyeur desires. I first got how strong my responses are my first time at a sex club. Nervous and really unsure about being there, I came alive in the group playroom. Watching and being watched was like waking up to colors I had yet to experience up to that point. Now, I like to cam and be watched on AFF for my arousal. I love that people are watching me, and I get to read responses that heighten my experience. Love camming with someone else or a group as we play and warch. SO hot!
Click to expand...
I would so love to cam with you!
 
Playfulsteph said:
I have both very strong exhibitionist turn on and voyeur desires. I first got how strong my responses are my first time at a sex club. Nervous and really unsure about being there, I came alive in the group playroom. Watching and being watched was like waking up to colors I had yet to experience up to that point. Now, I like to cam and be watched on AFF for my arousal. I love that people are watching me, and I get to read responses that heighten my experience. Love camming with someone else or a group as we play and warch. SO hot!
Click to expand...
I love this. What an exciting lifestyle. One question, what is AFF?
 
SevenMuse said:
I love that my pics turn into someone’s private show. Pose, press play, repeat — and you finish thinking of me. 💋
Filming with one eye on the camera and one on your reaction is my favorite kink. You come, I collect the confession. 😈
Click to expand...

Stripping vs. Modeling: Same Result, Different Mediums​


For me, stripping and modeling hit the same nerve — I get naked, you get off — but the mediums change the flavor.


On stage, it’s instant. I see your eyes, hear the music, feel the cash brush against my skin. Every move is live, raw, electric. I can smell the lust, taste the energy in the room.


With modeling, it’s delayed but no less intense. A photo shoot, a video clip, a pose caught in just the right light — and later, somewhere private, you’re stroking to it. I’m not there, but I know what’s happening. I know you’re finishing to an image of me I created.


Same result: you cum, I win. Different mediums: one live, one replayed. And honestly? I crave both. The stage feeds my fire, but the camera makes me immortal.


💋 Seven After Dark
 
My wife used to enter contests on another site..Voyeurweb...and I loved reading the comments. They provided hours of fun

Made many vids with our friends and showed a cpl to my college buddy. he must have enjoyed them he took 2 trips to the bathroom to empty himels
 

Confessions of a Dangerous Doll​


The Day the City Tried to Keep Up​


07:12 – The Call Sheet Lies (in the best way).
The message said: “Car at 8. Bring heels. Do not bring outfits.” That’s my favorite instruction in the world—no safety blanket, no plan, just me and a bag of lip gloss, a hairbrush, and the knowledge that I can make anything look indecent with enough enthusiasm. I kiss the mirror, slip into a loose hoodie with nothing underneath, and wait by the curb like a dangerous secret.


08:03 – Warehouse, North Side.
The driver never asks questions. He opens, I slide in, and the city begins. Our first stop is a sun-struck warehouse that smells like dust and ideas. Three racks: metallic bikinis, slashed denim, a white suede vest that looks innocent until you imagine it wet. “What am I wearing?” I ask. “We’re deciding as we go,” the photographer says, smiling like a co-conspirator. That’s all I need.


I start in denim cut-offs and white boots, vest open, nipples teasing the morning air. We shoot against corrugated steel and broken light, my body turning the ugly into appetite. I hang from a ladder, arch on a crate, strut along yellow hazard tape like it’s a catwalk. A small crew watches with that good kind of quiet—respectful, a little stunned, fully aware that I’m performing for them whether they admit it or not. By the time I untie the vest and let it slide, I’m warm, slick at the edges, and grinning like trouble.


10:27 – Alleyway Coffee, Zero Shame.
“Change in the car,” they say. I don’t. I change behind a delivery truck, one hand on a side mirror, the city pretending not to stare. Next look: black wet-look triangle top with tiny strings and a micro-mini that’s more suggestion than skirt. We grab coffees. The barista’s eyes widen, then soften into a “God bless you, ma’am.” I tip huge and leave lipstick on the lid. We shoot on the sidewalk, sunlight bouncing off metal and my smile. A cyclist rings his bell twice; I count it as applause.


11:45 – The Freight Elevator (Prelude).
We detour to a mid-rise because the building manager “owes someone a favor.” Translation: we have twenty minutes to misbehave. I step into the freight elevator in just heels and a shiny teal bikini they pull from a garment bag like a magic trick. The doors close; the city hushes. We ride up slow, light strobing, mirrors catching angles of me that make me bite my lip. I lean into the corner, tug the bottoms aside, and let the camera have the view. “One more floor,” I whisper, and the elevator obeys like it’s in on the game.


12:22 – Rooftop, High Noon.
On the roof, the wind puts its hands in my hair and I let it. I lose the bikini top first, then the bottoms; my heels stay. The photographer doesn’t direct much because he doesn’t need to. I know where the parapet loves a thigh, where the skyline makes a perfect backdrop for a parted mouth, where my hips look like sin and salvation at once. Across the way, a curtain twitches. My favorite audience: pretend-you’re-not-looking voyeurs. I give them a slow bend and a smile I learned at the nudie bar, then I climb the little metal stairs that lead back down to the maintenance room—completely naked for over an hour, up and down, up and down, teasing every landing like it’s a stage. The city below keeps breathing; I make it breathe harder.


14:03 – The Escape.
I towel off, slip the red dress over hot skin, no panties (never), and we take the freight elevator down like thieves escaping with a masterpiece. In the alley a car door already swings open. A bottle of water. A laugh that sounds like victory. “Cherry Creek,” someone says. I look out the window and pet the hem of my dress like it’s an obedient pet. I’m still pulsing from the roof and the imagined applause from windows I’ll never meet.


14:41 – Cherry Creek, Private Residence.
The house has that money whisper: quiet, tasteful, guarded by tall hedges. There’s a pool out back the color of expensive sapphires and a tray of flutes already sweating on a table. We shed our shoes on the stone like tokens. I’m in a satin-teal set now—strappy sides, glossy cups—chosen to reflect the water and make me look like I slept with the moon. We start soft: edge-of-pool kneels, wrists behind me, hair falling forward while the lens loves the line of my back. I slide in, the fabric darkens, clings, turns indecent. When I climb out, water tracks every curve like it paid for the privilege.


I ditch the top first—slow, one strap at a time—and roll onto a lounge chair, arching so the last of the droplets chase each other between my breasts. Someone breathes “holy…” and forgets the rest of the word. I laugh; I love breaking language. The bottoms go next. I take a flute, sip, set it on my belly, watch bubbles race my skin, then tilt until it slides into my hand again. The camera keeps time; my body writes melody. A neighbor’s gate clacks somewhere; I part my thighs wider on purpose and keep going.


16:12 – The Garden Path.
We use the hedge walk like a runway—me barefoot, slick, wearing only a white suede cropped vest that won’t stay closed. I tease bees and blossoms with the same hips. Birds protest; sprinklers applaud. The crew follows, stepping careful, laughing quiet, catching every “oops” and every deliberate oops when the vest surrenders to gravity. I let the sun kiss where the pool cooled me, and for a stretch of ten heartbeats the world feels perfectly designed for me to be naked in it.


17:30 – Golden Hour, High Windows.
Inside, tall panes throw squares of gold across the floor. We put me in sheer black lace, then take me out of it. I ride the light like a stage mark, sit on the sill with a leg up, silhouette wicked and soft at once. The camera sometimes clicks and sometimes just… watches. I love that. It means we’ve graduated from capture to worship. When the lace drops, I stand and let the rectangle of sun crawl up my body, slow, devotional. “Hold,” he says, and I do, until I feel it pass over my mouth and I taste the day.


18:44 – Dinner in a Towel (That Won’t Stay).
We take five. I eat grilled peaches and prosciutto wrapped around hunger while a towel pretends to be a dress. It fails. Every time I lift my glass, the knot loosens; every time I laugh, the hem rises. Nobody fixes it. That’s the job—let gravity and appetite compete, let me be the tiebreaker with a wicked grin.


19:23 – Blue Hour by the Pool (Round Two).
The sky goes indigo; candles wake. I’m back in the teal set just long enough to glam the color, then naked again, kneeling at the waterline with ripples licking my thighs. I talk to the lens like it’s the man I’m going to ruin later—slow, low, promising. “Closer,” I say, and the camera obeys. I spread wider and imagine the windows across the ravine: a couple pausing the TV, a lone runner catching his breath, someone holding a glass a little too tight. I raise one knee, sink two fingers, and give the night its show. Golden-hour softness becomes blue-hour sin. I come once for the pool, once for the glassy eyes I’ll never meet, and once just for me.


21:07 – Silk, City Lights, Private Audience.
We finish on the upstairs balcony, city glittering like a tray of diamonds I refuse to wear. I try on a silver sequin dress, then peel it down to my waist, let it hold like a belt while I grind against the railing—slow, deep, the kind of movement that makes cameras swear under their breath. A passing Uber eases to a stop at the intersection below and idles longer than necessary. Maybe he’s lost. Maybe I am. I look down, blow a kiss, and finish the set with my hair in my fist and my head tipped back, throat open to the night.


22:10 – The Wrap.
We crowd around the monitor like kids around a campfire. Frame after frame glows: warehouse heat, alley wickedness, rooftop audacity, poolside worship, windowlight devotion, balcony surrender. I sign a release with a towel around my hips and a flush across my chest I can’t blame on champagne. “Same time tomorrow?” someone jokes. I say, “Surprise me.” They will.


23:01 – The Quiet After.
Back home, I drop the dress, kick off the heels, and stand in front of the window because habits are holy. Down below, the city makes its sleepy music. Somewhere out there, a stranger still thinks about a red dress on a roof. Somewhere closer, a neighbor wonders if that was candlelight or skin by a pool. I smile, naked and sore in the best way, and text two words to the crew: send selects.


Tomorrow, they’ll send the proof that I turned the whole day into a confession. Today, I already know.


Sexy. Playful. Sensual. Naked.
Exactly how the city likes me—and exactly how I like myself.
 
Sgts19 said:
My wife used to enter contests on another site..Voyeurweb...and I loved reading the comments. They provided hours of fun

Made many vids with our friends and showed a cpl to my college buddy. he must have enjoyed them he took 2 trips to the bathroom to empty himels
Click to expand...
Any still up on that site?
 

Confessions of a Dangerous Doll​


Silver Sky, Red Lace (Blended Edition)​


The wind on the roof had the kind of attitude only evening can pull off—cool against my cheeks, warm on my shoulders, a little mouthy with my hair. I leaned back into the rail, denim jacket sliding low, silver catching the last light like a secret I was ready to spend. The city was all hum and glow, a living audience that didn’t know it had bought front-row seats.


I love rooftops for the way they pretend to be private and fail. There’s always a balcony with curious plants, a window where a blind doesn’t quite meet the frame, a passerby on the street who pauses at the worst possible moment and then wonders why his feet won’t start again. I can feel them even when I can’t see them—those little pockets of air that change temperature when someone looks too long. The camera to my left clicked softly, counting the beats of my breathing.


“Hold it,” he said.


I did. Chin dropped. Hip tipped. Silver top taut as a smirk; the matching bottoms eased low by the lightest brush of my thumb. The jacket was more attitude than fabric, slipping farther with every breath. If the wind wanted it, it could have it. If the city wanted me, it could try.


Somewhere across the way a curtain twitched—barely. I smiled like I hadn’t noticed and adjusted the strap of my top with exaggerated care, the way a dancer plays with time. Click. Another. The camera was close enough to hear my laugh, far enough to keep me dangerous.


“Turn toward the corner,” he said, voice like a good suggestion. “Let the light slide.”


I did, and it did: a sheet of pale gold that traced the slope of my shoulder, then warmed the silver until it looked liquid. The color changed with the wind, a mood ring tuned to breath and mischief. I let the jacket drop to my elbows and watched the horizon choose its night. One taxi honked; a siren answered blocks away; the curtain across the street surrendered a little more of its secret.


I arched, slowly, and the city answered with a thousand indifferent lights, which is the same as a thousand interested ones if you’re willing to believe it. The camera stopped clicking for a breath, the way a friend goes quiet when a story gets good. I wasn’t performing for the lens anymore—I was performing for the space between the lens and the world, that thin electric wire where desire travels fast.


We worked our way along the rail—tiny steps, small poses, the choreography of almost. I propped one boot on the lower bar and let the jacket go. Wind had its victory; I had mine. The silver top tightened; the bottoms rode a little lower; my mouth tasted like metal and evening. “Beautiful,” he said. Not a compliment so much as a field note. It floated and landed. I let it soak.


“Inside?” he asked after the sky turned the color of a good bruise.


“Inside,” I agreed, because the second act was waiting.


The stairwell smelled like old heat and someone else’s stories. I gathered the jacket around my elbows and let the silver flash with every step, a strobe made of skin. The door clicked us into a corridor where the air-conditioning pretended it could erase what had happened outside. It couldn’t; I was carrying it with me.


The room had walls that remembered laughter—warm paint, hand-pinned flowers, a corner that looked like it kept secrets for a fee. On a chair waited the next look: red lace, the precise tone that makes good decisions blush. I stepped into it and felt it slip on like a dangerous thought. No zippers. No hooks. Nothing that would save me from myself.


“Don’t face me yet,” he said. “Let me earn it.”


I turned away, the lace mapping me with patience, every flower a little dare. The mirror caught my eyes over my shoulder; the camera found me from the same angle. I tilted my chin, slow enough to feel the seconds pass down my spine, and held.


The shift from rooftop showgirl to indoor seduction didn’t feel like a costume change; it felt like letting the volume knob slide from public to private. Silver had been for the world—a glittering hello to whoever was bold enough to look up. Red was for one person at a time. For the breath that changes when distance disappears. For the way a room becomes a confessional if you whisper at the right speed.


“Step to the wall,” he said.


I did, pressing a palm to the paint as if it might be warm from someone else’s shoulder. The lace clung and revealed, a contradiction I’ve always loved. I shifted my weight; a curve answered. I turned my face—not fully—and the camera rewarded me with a sound I’ve learned to trust, that small reverent click that means keep going, it’s working.


The room seemed to lean closer. I let the pose breathe, let the hem inch up as if it had somewhere better to be. The flowers on the fabric became a rumor of skin; the straps suggested more than they covered. I drew a fingertip along the small of my back and felt the lace respond, a tremor traveling as if it had its own pulse. I imagined the city outside slowing down for a heartbeat, wondering where the rooftop girl had gone. Answer: here, inside, where the lights are softer and the rules are kinder.


“Look at me,” he said.


I did, finally. Full burn. No coyness. The kind of look that says if you came this far with me, I won’t make you guess the ending. The shutter sounded greedy and gentle at once. I love that combination. It makes me honest.


We built the rest like a duet we’d practiced for years: weight into one hip, hand skimming down, pause at the thigh; a half-turn that keeps mystery alive; a breath that changes the entire photograph. When I leaned forward, the lace answered with a hush; when I arched, it brightened like a smile. I let it ride up another inch, then another, testing the line where suggestion becomes certainty. He never told me where the line was; he trusted that I know. He was right.


There’s a moment in every shoot when the character I’m playing aligns perfectly with the woman I am. The room felt like that now—my voice low, my shoulders relaxed, my mouth painted with a small, pleased curve. “You’re trouble,” he said, the way you’d say sunset or ocean.


“Noted,” I said.


We tried the corner next: I stood with one foot braced behind me and let the lace stretch just enough to confess what it was made for. The painted flowers on the adjacent wall made little parades of color; I pretended they were applause. “Hold,” he said again, and I did until holding turned to humming. The camera took its time, choosing frames the way a collector chooses vinyl—by ear, by feel, by knowing there will be grooves you can’t see yet.


When he asked for one more sequence, I gave the room a slow turn, letting the hem rise with my breath, letting the straps shift like they were learning my name. I rested my head against the wall, eyes half-closed, and listened to the old pipes murmur behind the plaster. The day gathered around us: the rooftop hum, the stairwell hush, the way red lace makes promises without speaking.


“Last one,” he said.


I nodded and stepped forward, closer than we usually choose, the kind of closeness that makes the lens forget it’s a machine. The lace held. The look held. The air held. For three heartbeats I was a single idea, and the idea was come closer. The camera clicked. The room exhaled.


We didn’t announce the end; we let it drift to us. I looked down, smoothed the hem, and laughed because the laughter hadn’t had enough to do yet today. He lowered the camera and tilted his head in that quiet thank-you we use when words feel clumsy. I returned it.


“Silver to get their attention,” he said as he checked the screen, “red to keep it.”


“Exactly,” I said, slipping the denim jacket over the lace without closing it. “They can have the sky. This part’s mine.”


Back in the hallway, the air-conditioning tried again to pretend it could erase what we’d done. No chance. The elevator sighed us down. In the lobby a security guard looked up from a crossword and then looked away, smiling to himself. Outside, the city had changed temperature—warmer now, bluer, ready for whatever stories it could catch before morning.


We walked toward the car and I felt the day like a second skin: silver heat on my shoulders, red lace around my ribs, a thousand windows humming with the possibility that someone had seen exactly what they needed to see. On the ride home I watched our reflections in the dark glass and let my grin stay. Rooftops for the world, rooms for the lucky, both for me.


At a stoplight our driver glanced into the mirror. “Good shoot?” he asked.


“The best kind,” I said, tugging the jacket a little closer and not bothering to close it. “The kind the city will remember without knowing why.”


He laughed. The light turned green. I looked out at the buildings sliding past and thought about the curtain that had moved and the wall that had warmed and the way a camera can turn simple movement into a hymn. Tomorrow there will be new outfits, new locations, new eyes pretending not to look. Tonight there’s just the afterglow and the comfortable ache of having told a beautiful secret well.


And if someone on a balcony is still thinking of a silver flash against the sky… if someone in a quiet room can’t shake the memory of red lace against a wall… good. Let them. Let the city keep a little of me, and let me keep a little of it. That’s the deal I make every time I climb a stairwell or turn toward a lens: I’ll give you a story you can’t forget; you give me the thrill of being the one you remember.


I looked down at the jacket, then at the lace peeking through, and grinned again—nicer than a goodbye, sharper than a promise. The car turned toward home, and the night settled on my skin like satin.


Silver for the world. Red for you.
And either way, I’m exactly who I say I am: your Dangerous Doll.
 

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