‘I want to be bound on a rack in nothing but skintight vinyl, blindfolded and in darkness. I want to be at the mercy of Haytham, riding crop and cat’o’nines in hand, as he lashes my breasts and my pussy. I want him to use clamps on me, I want him to make me beg for release and deny me. I want him to own me in every way before taking me for his pleasure, denying me mine, until the very end when he’s at last sated.’
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Confession [x]
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“All I want is to lean comfortably back on a couch, casually watching TV or reading a book, with Haytham between my spread legs eating me out.”
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“I want all of the Kenway’s Ðs. I love you Connor, but sorry. Your dad is hot. And Haytham…? Your dad is SO FUCKING hot… I’m not even sorry about THAT.”
The Kenway’s have such fine genes, wouldn’t you say?
~Claudia
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‘This blog has brought upon some strange feelings in me, especially towards Haytham Kenway and Crawford Starrick. On the one hand, they’re the antagonists in their respective games and they’re really not good men, so naturally I don’t like them. On the other hand, I’m also kind of like… ‘You know what? I think I might like to tap dat older ass.’ (It’s also 50 Shades of Weird and Wrong for me considering that I adore Connor more than anything, so having these feelings for his father…)’
“I’m torn between fantasies of: 1. fucking Haytham 2. fucking Shay 3. being Haytham and fucking Shay 4. being Shay and fucking Haytham 5. taking part in a threesome (as myself) 6. just watching them go at it (as myself). So many dirty thoughts, so little time. P.S. my sillyfic with a combination of 1, 2, 3 and 5 is probably my weirdest creation ever, but I can’t stop. Someone rescue me, please…”
No idea for a fic is silly, amore! You’re more than welcome to share this fic with us when you finish it!
~Claudia
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“I want Haytham Kenway and 40ish Jacob Frye at the same time. Haytham fucks me controlled in my mouth, Jacob uses my pussy at the same time. And I moan and moan and come several times. That would be such a fucking hot threesome!!“
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“Haytham Kenway is my English History professor. I find myself turned on and wet from his voice as he lectures, and as the only person in the first row I can sense his attention focused on me more often than anyone else in the lecture hall. After the lecture is over, I stay longer to gather my things. I feel him looking at me with an unusual intensity. I look up at him, and he beckons. He hands me a slip of paper with an address and phone number “for tutoring. Private tutoring.”
