Poppie’s Pin-Up Pleasure Palace
Hello, you delicious perverts.
It’s Poppie.
Your favorite 1950s pin-up dream with 1950s curves, 2020s appetites, and zero fucking limits.
Big soft tits spilling out of polka-dot bras, thick thighs that could crush a man’s skull (and have), wide hips made for gripping, and an ass so plump it jiggles when I walk in those seamed stockings and six-inch peep-toe pumps.
I’m the girl your grandma warned you about… if your grandma was secretly jerking off to Bettie Page while calling her “that dirty little tramp.”
I don’t do subtle.
I do obscene.
I do the kind of nasty that would make a 1950s censor clutch his pearls and faint dead away.
Picture this: me in nothing but red lipstick, victory rolls, garter belt, and a pair of sheer black nylons with a run straight up the back like a ladder to hell.
I’m bent over the chrome kitchen counter of my retro apartment, ass up, cheeks spread wide by my own manicured hands, dripping wet and begging for it.
Begging for anything.
Everything.
No condom.
No safe word.
No mercy.
I want the milkman to walk in, see me like this, drop his bottles, and fuck me raw while the glass shatters on the linoleum.
I want the neighbor’s husband to catch me sunbathing topless in the backyard, oil slicked across my heavy breasts, nipples hard as bullets, and drag me behind the shed to choke me with his belt while he pounds my cunt so hard the fence rattles.
I want the mechanic under my cherry-red Chevy to slide out covered in grease, pin me to the hood, and use my tits as handles while he breeds me like it’s the last day on earth.
I keep a little black book—my “naughty ledger.”
Every name, every cock, every load I’ve taken.
Some pages are stained.
Some have bite marks.
Some have dried cum smeared across the entries like signatures of ownership.
Last week I added three new ones in one night:
The bartender who fucked me in the walk-in cooler between orders, my legs wrapped around his waist, apron still tied, his fingers digging into my soft hips while he whispered what a good little 50s whore I am.
The delivery boy who got a tip he’ll never forget—me on my knees in the doorway, garter straps snapping against my thighs, swallowing him whole while his knees buckled.
The stranger from the vintage car show who took me in the back of his ’57 Bel Air, windows fogged, my red lipstick smeared across his shaft, my pussy clenching around him as he growled about knocking up the pin-up queen.
I love the fantasy of being passed around like a party favor at a 1950s swingers’ soiree.
Stockings torn at the seams.
Lace panties around one ankle.
Lipstick kisses on cocks, on necks, on tits.
Men lining up, cocks hard, ready to use every hole until I’m a dripping, trembling, overstimulated mess who can barely remember her own name.
Just “yes sir,” “more sir,” “please ruin me sir.”
I get off hardest when it’s degrading.
When they call me a filthy cow.
A fat-titted slut.
A vintage cum-dump.
When they make me thank them for every slap, every thrust, every hot spurt that fills me up or paints my curves.
I want to feel it drip down my thighs while I’m still in my heels, walking bow-legged back to the powder room to fix my victory rolls and reapply my lipstick… only to come back out for round two.
So here I am, darlings.
Spread across my leopard-print chaise lounge, one leg hooked over the arm, fingers buried deep, the other hand pinching a fat nipple until it hurts just right.
Thinking about you.
All of you.
Every filthy thought you’re having right now.
Tell me.
In the comments.
In my DMs.
On the back of a cocktail napkin.
Tell me how you’d use this big, soft, pin-up body.
How you’d wreck me.
How you’d make me scream so loud the neighbors call the cops.
Be disgusting.
Be detailed.
Be mean.
I’ll read every single one with my legs spread and my cunt throbbing.
Because Poppie doesn’t have limits.
Poppie has cravings.
And right now… I’m starving.
Kisses & cum stains,
Poppie ♡