Tag: #corydaethot

sea men

Posted 5 days ago by Cory

sailors

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

My obsession with sailors and “sea men” began, as all great historical follies do, with a documentary about the Age of Exploration. I found myself utterly mesmerized not by the intrepid captains or the promise of new worlds, but by the burly, salt-crusted men swabbing decks in the background.

There was something about the coiled energy in their forearms and the way their necks met the rough wool of their pea coats. As I’ve always believed, a man who can tie a bowline knot under pressure is a man who could, you know, do a lot of “other” things with equal, competent grace.

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dumb loser betas

Posted 2 weeks ago by Cory

gooner triggers

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

I’ve spent countless nights convincing loser betas that I was the answer to all their problems. I had mastered the art of making them believe that I was the only one who truly understood them. They would pour their hearts out to me and tell me all about their boring jobs, their lackluster love lives and their overall sense of inadequacy.

And I would listen, nodding sympathetically, all the while thinking about how they’re nothing more than pussy-free losers with zero hope in finding a girlfriend, or even a one-night stand for that matter, and how I was going to manipulate them into funding my next shopping spree or vacation. I mean, let’s be real, these guys were losers and they knew it. They were desperate for attention. And I was more than happy to provide that attention, for a price of course!

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big tits

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

There was a time when I’d try to wear loose-fitting clothes to minimize the attention, but it seemed like the more I tried to hide them, the more my giant tits seemed to, well, bulge out. I’d get comments from strangers, some of whom would be kind enough to offer me “helpful” advice on how to reduce their size (and others who, um, offered to test their firmness as if I couldn’t see their boners growing in their pants).

One of the most memorable experiences I had was during a family vacation to the beach. I opted for a bright pink bikini with a built-in bra, which seemed like a good idea at the time (spoiler alert: it wasn’t). As I was applying sunscreen, I noticed a group of guys staring at me from a nearby beach umbrella. That was when my quick-witted brother jumped in and started doing a play-by-play commentary of the scene, complete with over-the-top sports announcer voice and ridiculous sound effects.

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potty abdl

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

Kevin hadn’t “pottied” in three days. THREE DAYS. He claimed he was “saving up for a big one.” I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but let’s just say I know now. And I’d rather not discuss it over dinner. When I finally cornered him in the living room, surrounded by crumpled diapers like a hoarder’s confession, he gave me those big eyes and whispered “I wike diapers, Cory.” Try as I might, he really didn’t want to use the potty.

Changing him was always a challenge. Last time, he flopped dramatically onto the changing mat I laid out and whined that the powder irritated his “tushie sensors.” I’m not kidding. Actual phrase. I tried to stay professional, like a diaper-disposal Navy SEAL, but then he giggled and let one rip simultaneously while I had his legs in the air, and I lost it. I mean, I didn’t get angry or anything. Instead, I laughed like a maniac, which only encouraged him to do it again. Sigh.

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hypnotherapy

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

From the moment Daniel sat down, the silver wedding band on his finger seemed to mock me. He’d come to me for anxiety, but as I looked into his worried eyes, I saw a much deeper, more potent need. I  saw a craving for release and surrender that married life could never possibly provide. I offered him my most reassuring, professional smile, all while concocting a plan to make him forget all about the woman waiting for him at home.

Initially, I convinced myself this was a form of radical therapy. A way to unlock the part of him he kept chained away by duty and expectation. After all, wasn’t my job to guide my clients to their truest desires? I certainly saw it that way! As I began the induction, and my voice dropped to that low and melodic cadence that had crumbled so many wills before his, I knew I was doing him a service. I was liberating him.

Continue reading “Curing Daniel’s Anxiety With Hypnosis” →

upside down abdl

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

It started when the power went out. Flickering lights, the fridge groaning, right as I was tucking Benny into his bed. “Mama Cory, was that thunder?” he whispered, wide-eyed, clutching a stuffed waffle toy. I smoothed his hair, adjusted his thick pull-up, and said, “No, baby. Just the flux capacitor acting up again.” I wasn’t sure what I meant, but it sounded sci-fi enough to soothe him.

As the basement lightbulb popped with a suspicious snap, I told my boy to stay put, kissed him on the forehead, and grabbed my glow-in-the-dark taser (which, admittedly, was just a repurposed sex toy). Armed with maternal instinct, I descended the stairs into the dark, humming the theme song to my favorite show as a way to stay focused.

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findom goddess

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

I didn’t start this whole findom goddess thing on purpose. It was more like a side hustle during my “career break” after years of being a “professional” babysitter. One day, I woke up after posting a cute selfie (in which you could see my feet) to the realization that I went viral.

Suddenly, my follower count was higher than my self-esteem and I was fielding requests from people who called themselves “Cory’s Losers,” which was a little creepy considering, but hey…who am I to argue with someone who wants to pay me for simply existing?

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abdl

Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407

I came home to the scent of overcooked sugar and something suspiciously like chocolate melted on the stovetop. “Liam?” I called, dropping my keys with a clatter, already bracing myself. What I found in the kitchen stopped me mid-sigh. There was flour dusted on every surface like powdered snowfall, eggshells were floating in a bowl like tiny ceramic rafts, and my grown-up baby, wearing nothing but footed pajamas and a look of proud guilt, was standing knee-deep in spilled sprinkles.

He had clearly attempted to make Christmas cookies. It was a noble effort, really, but whatever recipe he used had devolved into what looked like a science experiment gone rogue. A lopsided dough monster clung to the counter, a measuring cup was stuck on his head like a helmet, and my (VERY EXPENSIVE) mixer lay on its side, still twitching with post-beating aftershocks.

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