Jump to content

Overview

About This Club

Biweekly Writing Challenges.

Type of Club

EcchiDreams Specific Community Club
  1. What's new in this club
  2. The entries are in... now it's up to you to vote! Whose entry should win Challenge 41? Voting closes on midnight 19 Jul 2025!
  3. Chapter Six - Online Dating What had started out as a decent rooming situation had started to sour. Lacy was constantly short on rent, missing rent for the month, or paying them back late. He would have kicked her out after the first month but because he was hung up on Tayra, her BFF, he let it go on to long. Covering her rent and expecting money that never came. Finally it was to much even Lacy knew she had to move out. Tayra unable to cover an increase in rent also moved out at the same time. Lacy moving out and Tayra going to move back in with Merrick was like a wakeup call. Realizing maybe it wasn't Tayra he was hung up on maybe just the hope that he could find companionship. Turning to the Internet he created an online dating profile. Figuring what could it hurt he didn't know any other way to meet women. ----- His adventure into online dating didn't go as well as he hoped. Probably because he always held a little too much back online. Though it's not like he didn't go on dates through the various applications. Of course he was cat-fished a couple of times by bots as well. He did end up on a couple of dates through the apps. One was an absolutely disaster date where getting coffee turned into walking her dog a for like fifteen minutes. The date became a fast paced hike through a park. Even though he didn't particularly enjoy being around dogs he still threw out the idea of a second date. "No thank you. It was a pleasant time we just didn't click." A phrase he was getting used to hearing. That's okay life was about the rejection. Lots and lots of rejection. Undeterred he tried them all. That night sitting at home scrolling through his empty inbox he pulls open a familiar tab. Watching some hentai in the background he pulls open his gaming site. He sees a friend of his online. Throwing them a message to say hi. They have chatted back and forth about video games for about two months now. There reply pops up. "Hey what are you up to tonight." "Just watching some videos." "You watching some porn or something lol." "Yes." What was he doing. Why did he reply with a yes. They were probably going to block him now. Embarrassed he didn't know what to do. Typing and erasing a follow up message he was paralyzed on what to do. Then there reply came through. "Really? That's kind of hot." He was shocked they were not embarrassed by his omission. In fact what unfolded was one of the most unfiltered discussions he had ever had about porn, kinks, masturbation habits, nothing was off the table. "Have you ever edged? "Edged?" The word seemed innocent enough but it was about to open a new door for him. His online friend proceed to lead him through masturbating, or JOI as he later learned it to be. Stroking his cock his eyes glued to massages that came through. Doing his best one handed typing as he stroked to the number given. "Now get to the edge and hold it." "Fuck." He typed desperate to cum but holding back. "Now relax and rest..." "And edge." He stopped typing the messages didn't need to see his responses until they asked a question. He groaned in pleasure as he was repeatedly brought to the edge but not allowed to cum. "Now beg for release." "Please... please let me cum." "Cum all over me sexy." As those words flashed across the screen he let out a loud groan. Cumming harder then he has ever before. His cum hitting the computer and screen as it erupted from his cock. "Fuck..." Was all he could type. "Glad to be of help sexy. Talk to you later.
  4. //Hey! I got it submitted in time, lol// Hearing loss. That had to be it, Daga thought. Davaros had taken one too many strikes to the helm, and all that ringing steel meant the paladin couldn’t tell that he and Melleria were going at it hard enough to make the wood nymphs blush. Seated at the fire, the goblin woman gave the red oil-cloth tent a loathing look that might have been disappointment if the droop in her black lip and sallow eyelids hadn’t given the expression the appearance of dripping off her face like running paint. It was stupid to feel any way about it, she decided. Anyone with half a brain knew that the blue-eyed warrior with the silver sword—nineteen hands tall if he was an inch—belonged with the golden-haired half-elf he was currently stabbing with his other divine weapon. And with a miserable flick of her wrist, Daga swept her curved knife across the bulby, white head of gnomeweed growing out from under the fallen log she and the Blacktooth had dragged over for a bench. Blacktooth wasn’t seated on the impromptu bench, however. The dwarf had opted instead to squat on his pack opposite the fire from her… closer to the tent. And with his head cocked to the side and his mustache split by the stupid grin plastered on his roseate face, Daga could see the square of dark enamel that gave the barbarian his name. Cutting a weedy thread of budding assassin-vine, she tried to ignore it… just as she tried to ignore the way his calloused hand was massaging his breech cloth and just as she was trying to ignore the light, breathy voice from inside the tent gasping, “quiet, the others will hear.” Despite how she acted around the paladin, Daga didn’t believe the sorceress was quite that naïve. She knew what they were doing. She knew the dwarf and the ratty, little goblin woman would hear, and she liked knowing they would hear. Well, maybe not that Blacktooth could hear… but Melleria had caught Daga’s eyes lingering on the paladin’s sweat-streaked body as he doffed his armor after battle. Though she’d not said anything to her face, it seemed like that had been the moment the crimson-clad sorceress’s own impatience with the affably dense paladin had turned to flirtation. “Aah~ Not so rough…” Daga let out a sharp, little growl and stabbed the log. From across the fire, Blacktooth looked her way, and the goblin looked off into the trees, trying to hide the crumb of embarrassment irritating her eyes after being caught. “You know…” the dwarf started, shifting on his pack and swaying a little, as if his graveled voice had started a little avalanche inside that was making him unsteady. “There is somethin’ about bein’ in the woods… at night… under the stars… Somethin’ kinda… romanciful.” Melleria let out a high, tight squeal, and there was a pause in the steady clapping coming from the tent as cloth rustled, but only a pause. Soon the butcher’s counter sound of slapping flesh returned at a swifter pace. Ignoring the dwarf and running her palms over the wide green slope of her pointed ears, Daga wondered how much she’d still be able to hear if she cut them off. “I’m just saying—” “Not in the mood,” Daga said, cutting off Blacktooth before whatever ham-fisted proposition cooking on his tongue could escape. This, however, did not prove sufficient. “Not in the mood?” Blacktooth said incredulously. Standing up, the dwarf sauntered around the fire in a way that Daga was sure was meant to show his best assets, his stance wide and showcasing the thick muscle of his thigh—among other things—through his breeches, his grin wider now that his rotten tooth was facing away from her. “Come’n, now. Listening to them carry on doesn’t do anything for you? All them sounds… Just picturin’ what’s goin’ on inside that tent… You don’t feel even a little… randy?” As he came to a stop in front of her, Daga could see how ‘randy’ her adventuring companion was feeling, and with no inconsiderable exercise of willpower, she resisted skewering his ‘randiness’ like a sausage on the end of her weed-executing blade. She didn’t, and it wasn’t all because she didn’t like the idea of having to interrupt Davaros and Melleria’s escapades to request an emergency healing on the barbarian. No, it was in no inconsiderable part because he wasn’t wrong. And as she averted her eyes, her dark lips pinching in frustration, all the flower-cutting in the world wasn’t going to fill that ache nestling low in her own breeches. “Ah, fuck…” Blacktooth muttered, his eyes softening a degree as he dropped onto the log beside her. “Sorry. I knew you were a touch gaga for the human, but it looks like it’s really stewin’ ya, eh? The rogue and the paladin… funny sort of pairing.” It was perhaps the most sincere, Daga had ever heard the dwarf speak, and for some reason the fact that he hadn’t said ‘the goblin and the human’ gave her pause. As she glanced his way, she saw his cracked lips were pulled tight in thought, his hands staying put on his own knees as cricket song and the metronome of the paladin’s impressively steady thrusts filled the air between them. “I, uh, yeah…” Daga started, unsure what to do with the uncharacteristic show of empathy from her companion. They’d faced death together, but facing life was an entirely different matter. “I mean… I get it. Human’s don’t generally go for, erm, all of this…” Daga gestured at her scrawny figure, twelve-hands tall if you counted the ears, her yellowed eyes and rough skin the pale sickly shade of green that sometimes accompanied pus. Only her teeth were vaguely appealing, and those she’d had changed by a transmutationist—exchanging her fangs for pearly teeth of the sort found in human and elven mouths. In experience, she’d found that the juxtaposition actually made her more unsettling to some, and the only benefit was that she could now do away with the native hissing of her goblin accent more easily and do a fair imitation of some of the elven ladies she’d seen at their stopovers in Evershorne Glade. “Ah,” Blacktooth said thoughtfully, his beard wagging as he shook his head in condolence. “I understand. It’s the rare elven beauty that goes in for a road-stained dwarf like myself.” Her instinct was to snap back that there was a fair sight of difference between a dwarf and a goblin when it came to such things, but Daga held her tongue. If nothing else, Blacktooth’s moment of sincerity was distracting her from the back-arching gasps coming from the red tent. “You know, my folk have a story about such things,” the dwarf began, leaning back on the log and looking up at the stars, and for the faintest moment, Daga idly thought how the angle suited him. “There was once a gosling, and when she were born, she was the ugliest little bitch that ever waddled.” Daga frowned. “Not sure I love where this story is headed, Blacktooth.” “It gets better, it gets better,” the dwarf interjected holding up a palm to motion for patience. “Now this little goose, she knew she wasn’t the sleekest or the most handsome of the goslings, but she did not give up. No. She decided to do what she could. So as the farmer came round to feed his geese, the ugly little gosling rushed in and ate all she could.” This was a decidedly dwarven tale, Daga thought, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hands as she looked to her companion beside her. “And as she ate, she grew big and plump, and the more she ate the fuller her feathers became and the rounder her frame grew.” “So… all this eating made the ugly goose… beautiful?” Daga asked, not quite seeing the point yet. Blacktooth blinked and let out a wheezing chuckle. “What? No! She was ugly as sin, but she were right plump by then.” Taking a moment to collect himself, the dwarf’s gaze lingered on Daga with a softer grin. “She were stout and ready, and when the farmer came, he picked her out of all the other geese. And that night, he had himself a right delicious dinner. So you see—” Daga bristled as she felt the dwarf’s rough hand surreptitiously slide from the back of the log to cup her ass, and turning to face him, she flinched at how suddenly close that rotten black tooth loomed. “—even a very ugly goose can make for a very fine evening.” The suddenness with which Daga’s elbow found the barbarian’s sternum was only matched by the speed with which she shot to her feet. She didn’t waste any words, turning and stalking for the treeline. “Fine,” the dwarf wheezed, bent double and clutching at his chest, “be a cunt about it.” “AH! Davaros!” “Will you all shut the fuck up!” Daga’s outburst was so sharp and abrupt that for a moment even the woodland insects seemed to hold their breath. And as she disappeared into the wood, her goblin-eyes adjusting swiftly to the full darkness, she only faintly heard the paladin’s breathless whisper of “did you hear that?’” Stomping through the brush, Daga cut the heads of several more gnomeweed bulbs. She carelessly swung her knife through a dangling dart-thistle, wincing as the irksome weed left a red line on her knuckle. Blue serpent-tail wasn’t strictly a weed, but Daga cut several of them anyway, too. It made her feel marginally better. Stabbing and slashing usually did. As she kicked her way through the roots of the dark forest, Daga cursed each of her three party members in turn, though, after the moons turned another hand’s breadth in the sky, she decided Melleria was the only one who really deserved it. Blacktooth was a jackass… but honestly, it was on her that she’d forgotten that for a moment and allowed herself to believe otherwise. Davaros was too dense to realize the sorceress was toying with him, and even if he knew, what reason would he have to care? Because it hurt the feelings of the rat-titted goblin he’d hired on to pick locks and clear traps? ‘Oh, yes, Daga, I would certainly have turned down the no-strings sex with this buxom half-elf if I’d known you had a little crush on me.’ “Stupid,” Daga muttered, swiping out with her dagger to lop the flowering heads off a couple budding troll’s-banes. “Just stupid.” Tripping on a root, she stumbled a moment, her hand coming up to catch her balance on the tree beside her and finding it oddly… smooth? Daga blinked, righting herself and taking half a step back to assess what she’d just stumbled against. It was a slim, paper-barked pine tree, but at her level, all the bark had been cleared away. At least, on this side it had. In its place was a carving. Set in relief against the trunk was a child, no… not a child. The features were too masculine and well defined, the proportions were all adult, it was just the size of him. A halfling then, and a vividly carved one at that. Wrapping around the trunk was a vine of red gilbert, the thorns interspersed with the crimson red flowers that gave it its name. It was a small blessing that Daga had not stabbed herself falling against the tree with an open palm, landing instead on the handsome face of the halfling, though in a way it seemed almost appropriate given the way the carving was framed, almost as if it were falling out of the tree in the other direction, caught mid-air. “Thanks for the hand,” Daga said with a cheerless little laugh. “It’s fine to see an actual gentleman out here.” As she assessed the silent halfling carved into the pine, she couldn’t help but note that whoever had done it certainly had an eye for the craft. He was so lifelike… and handsome to boot, and Daga found herself drinking in his beautiful features, right down to the small ribbon of a curl escaping his cap to fall across his forehead With a sigh, Daga twisted the knife in her fingers, wistfully swiping at the tangling red gilbert. “I don’t suppose you want to come with? My current party are all assholes.” As the crimson bloom was lopped off, there was a sudden rush of air, and the scent of pine resin burst forth so abruptly that Daga gagged on it. Saw dust and fine splinters fell loose, and the vine split apart, shriveling with an evil blackening that turned it to ash before her eyes. The halfling man stepped out of the tree then, breathing hard, coughing and wrapping his elbow around his nose as the wood texture gave way to bright red cloth and sun-kissed skin. “What the fuck!” Daga coughed, scurrying back and holding up her dagger warily. “Hello? Is someone there?” The halfling asked, blinking and waving his hands uncertainly in front of him. Daga hesitated, her wide eyes taking him in. There was a lute strapped to his back, and a sword at his hip. An adventurer? A bard, by the look of things. “Hello? I-Is someone there?” It was then that Daga saw his eyes—pale and faint to the point where the irises were nearly translucent. He was blind. Clearing her throat, Daga smoothed her voice. She didn’t want to scare the man, so she put on the soft tones she practiced when no one was there to overhear, imitating the elven ladies of the city. “Yes. Sorry. Hold on there, you’ll trip.” Daga started to reach out, then drawing up a pair of gloves from her belt, she put them on before taking the halfling man’s hand. “It looks like you were cursed, friend. Stuck in a tree, were you? Piss off a dryad?” The halfling started, then relaxed as he felt Daga’s gloved hand in his. “Oh, thank the gods. Yes, well, no… a colony of wood sprites. Gods, I can’t see... I’m sorry, I’m Hama. Hama Gleanlily. How long was I in there?” Daga winced, carefully leading him out of the underbrush to a clearer section of the forest floor. “I have no idea. It’s Midsummer, the eighteenth year of King Lascombe’s reign.” Hama winced. “Well, given I have no idea who that is, I’m guessing I was in there awhile.” “Yeah…” Daga replied quietly, not sure what to say. Despite the tragedy in the situation, seeing the carved halfling man come to life, the details she’d appreciated in his features were now distractingly vivid. And the dark curl of hair, springy and lively again made her want to reach out and twirl it in her finger. As the pause lingered between them, Hama’s expression changed, his initial fear subsiding to curiosity as he blindly looked down to where Daga still held his hand. “I… take it you’re a halfling too, by your voice and the fact that we seem to be the same height.” A somewhat awkward grin spread on his utterly kissable lips, and Daga blinked, freezing up for a moment. It was a simple enough misunderstanding to correct… it should have been, anyway. It would have been, if not for a thought that had popped into her head. “I’m sorry, I may have misjudged,” Hama said uncertainly, his eyebrows pinching slightly at the silence. “No.” Daga swallowed, clearing her throat a moment to keep the artificial smoothness to her tone. “No, you’re right… I’m Da—Dar…la. Darla Tum…ble…b-bell?” “Darla Tumblebell?” Hama said curiously. “Uh-huh. Darla Tumblebell,” Daga replied smartly, palming her face the moment the words left her mouth. “It’s funny, I knew a girl in Haverford by the name of Tumblebell. Given how long I’ve been en-treed, maybe you’re her descendent,” Hama said, a small bounce in his words making it clear it was more a joke at his situation than a serious thought. Daga laughed lightly, joining Hama as he shuffled forward and she began to lead him through the wood. But despite the halfling’s easy laugh, she had the sudden feeling of being on very uncertain ground. Why had she done that? Stupid. So stupid. She tried to tell herself it was just to keep him calm while she got him to safety, but that explanation felt hollow even to her, and as he blindly looked her way again, Daga decided no matter how it ended up, she had to at least get him to safety. “Look, I have an adventuring party nearby,” she said as she helped him over the next root. “But… when we get there, let me go first.” Wincing she quickly added, “I mean, they’re just skittish of strangers is all, and I’ll need to… erm… explain some… things.”
  5. what happens next I wasn’t supposed to get this far. There was no plan for month six, just a shaky day one followed by a hundred and eighty-two more shaky day ones, (but who's counting?) and somehow now six months on I floss my teeth. I eat breakfast. I pay rent early like someone who wants to keep her place. I’ve got a closet with more running shoes than regrets on most days, and I haven’t woken up beside a stranger in so long I forget how it feels to trade loneliness for someone else’s hunger. sometimes I want it back the oblivion, the lie of invincibility, the fast, hot "fuck you" to the world that felt like freedom even when it was just me losing again. I think about that a lot. I think about how easy it would be to buy a bottle, to ruin a week, to disappear into a bar booth and a back room or back seat like a magic trick no one claps for. but I don’t. not because I’m better or healed or whole. but because I’m too goddamn stubborn to let this world win. and maybe because the sunrise over the city this morning looked like something i could paint. and maybe because the silence in my bed is finally just silence and not a scream. and maybe just maybe it's curiosity. Maybe I want to see what happens next.
  6. I won't lie, I definitely wrote a lot of poetry trying to channel Charles Bukowski... or at least that's what it looks like in hindsight. I know I read a lot of Bukowski back then, because he felt like home. I think at the time I was trying to mine my life for the words that would paint what I felt, and no other style of writing aside from confessional diary entries seemed to make anything stick. But like most poetry, everything I wrote was pretentious, filled with weak attempts to describe emotion and life with mere words, as if words alone could convey the smells, the textures, the feelings,...physical or emotional. They can't, but sometimes they suggest enough to evoke something that might mimic what your particular experience tells you the author might have felt, and I guess that's close enough for mere mortals. I found a lot of stuff from the old days. A box of notebooks, thumb drives, and a few old laptop hard drives, two of which I could access with the help of a tech friend. There's stuff on there that is terrible, but some that's okay. You can see my inspiration - Bukowski is a massive influence, some might say I ripped off his style, and I definitely did, or tried to, in a lot of those writings, even if unintentionally. But also paintings that are mostly garbage, but sometimes inspired, clearly influenced by Mary Abbott and Elaine de Kooning... sketches where it looks like I'm in high school trying to draw still life without lifting my pencil, collages where it looks like I was just paste and angst on a bad drug trip, but sometimes inspired. Anyway... I'll share some of that stuff here. Poems that still make me embarrassed, not for what they try to convey, but for the weak attempt at conveying it, and mostly in someone elses' style, even if I tried to make it my own voice. Maybe I'll start with a hopeful one.
  7. Chapter 5 - First Girlfriend Well here he was. Sitting at a table with 15 other people next to his "date". Large crowds overwhelm him. Why did he agree to this? Of course he had never taken a girl on a date before; not that he would ever admit that to the group. Here he was in his nightmare scenario of a date. A date that was supposed to not feel like a date but sure as hell felt like a date. His head was spinning, his small talk skills were failing, and all he could do was drink water. One of his more nervous ticks in a restaurant is to drink from his water glass.The biggest problem with this nervous tick is waiters are constantly refilling his glass. Which causes him to drink more water. Which in turn made him have to pee. A lot. Finally the night was over. It was suggested he drive Mary home. As a chance to connect. It was an awkward drive home for him. Trying his best to seem confident. All the while feeling awkward and clumsy. To top it off halfway home he had to fucking pee again. While she was going to college she was living at home with her family and her parents were strict. Not wanting to explain anything to anyone she has him drop her off close but not in front of her house. They goodbye and is gone. Here he was in a part of Los Angeles he knows nothing about. Trying to wrap his head around the night and he only knows one thing. He has to fucking pee real bad. Finally finding a convenient store he deals with his first issue. Getting back in his car his phone buzzed. "Tonight was nice." "It was." "Do want to go out again?" "Sure." He smiles. Maybe the night wasn't so bad. ---------- At work it was a little awkward. She was a private person and didn't want people at work to be in her business. Something he agreed with. They went on a couple more dates but they kind of reached a platonic level. Trying to figure out how to be more forward during public dates was a challenge for him. Mandy's advice was to invite her over for dinner and make her something intimate and watch a movie. Grabbing something quick for dinner he quickly ate it in the car. Getting home he pulled out his phone and sent her a quick message inviting her over tomorrow. Then he stomach rumbled. Dinner did not agree with him. Rushing to the bathroom. He quickly pulls down his pants. Making it on time he sighs dinner did not pass through him nicely. Then his phone buzzed. "I don't think it's going to work out." "Sorry." Sitting on the toilet with diarrhea getting dumped this day just couldn't get worse. He didn't know what to do or say. Replying okay he gave up. Part of him knew it wasn't going to work out so he just accepted it. Why was everything with her connected to the bathroom. --------- He expected things at work to be awkward but she just kind of avoided him. Which was fine for him. Dodging awkward conversations was his specialty. Mandy did her best to try and cheer him up but honestly for his first real girlfriend it wasn't bad. He knew their relationship had a time limit and was going to end some time (he also still had a foolish candle for Tayra). He had just wished he could have gone farther than it had before it ended. Especially because the guy she dated next, Martino, was a real piece of work. She had no problem with people knowing she was dating that prick. If that was her type maybe he dodged a bullet. Additionally, he had started a new job in his desired field. Which meant cutting back his hours at the old job and spending less time with those work friends. Consequently, he was home alone a lot more. Being young, always horny, and a virgin he ended up spending time exploring the darker corners of the Internet. He tried not to spend money on porn, really he wonders why people would, but he had been seeing a lot of those pop-ups for cam girls. Curious and feeling lonely from the breakup he signs up. Scrolling through the options he finds an attractive blond lady. "What's up baby. What would you like to see?" He had thought about this for awhile. Most of his fetishes he could watch on video but here was a live woman. "Could you stuff your panties in your pussy?" The request throws the model slightly but she knows how to use her time. Slowly she pulls off her panties. Grabbing a dildo she teased the outside of pussy. Before sliding it in. Getting her pussy nice and slick she starts pushing her panties in. His hand gripping his cock hard he can't take his eyes off her glistening pussy. She lets out a moan as the panties disappear inside her. Picking the dildo up she starts fucking her panty stuffed pussy. Letting out a big moan she cums. Pulling out her panties she gives them a suck. This pushes him over the edge. Cumming hard he sprays his load all over. Panting hard she messages "Times up. That was fun big boy." Cleaning himself up he wonders was that worth it? Going to bed he dreamt that night of those pussy soaked panties being Tayra's
  8. Chapter 4 - Relapse At first the new rooming situation was smooth sailing. The four of them got along pretty well. Lacy was a little annoying but they were often not home. He was enjoying getting to know Tayra even better. Though this had a negative side to it. He thought he had put those feelings aside but getting to spend more time with her rekindled those feelings. It didn't help that Merrick was over protective of her. To a dangerous level. All of her friends told her she needed to break up with him. Well all but him. He secretly held a desire that maybe she would come to him for comfort after a fight. He would hold her close. Looking into each other's eye they would kiss. Infact this would become a recurring fantasy of his when he would be home alone. Barkers got a new job that put his working schedule in the evening. Lacy was always out doing something and Tayra was with Merrick. Sitting home alone he delved into exploring his masturbation fetishes. In his exploration of hentai he had discovered futanari. Starting with the doujinshi of Alice and going through the ova Bible Black. This particular evening he stumbled onto a site filled with futanari doujinshi. Running his hand over his erection he dreamed of seeing a pussy in real life. As he built himself to an orgasm. He realized he left something in his room. As he walked down the hall something caught his eye. A pair of silk panties dropped on the floor on the way into her room. Picking up her panties he couldn't help but feel how soft they were. Looking down at his erection he couldn't help himself. Heading into his room he closed the door Imagining her walking into his room. Wearing nothing but those silk red panties. Her little tits jiggling as she walks. Her nipples poking up in the air. Sliding her panties off she climbs on top of him. Wrapping her panties around his cock she began stroking. His hand becomes her hand. The soft fabric felt cool against his skin. "I need you...down there" He imagines her soft voice coming in his heart. Fingers slightly spreading her lips apart. It didn't take long before the panties wrapped around his cock head brought him to climax. Filling the crotch with his cum he looked down at them. Laying there he is embarrassed by his actions. Quickly he threw them into the wash. Desperate to erase his deed before anyone got home. --------- One day at work he and Mandy are talking about relationships. Really it's more like Mandy talking about the current guy she is dating. As they are talking Tayra walks in. Joining the conversation. Mandy brings up Merrick and some shitty thing he did to Tayra. Mandy was shipping him and Tayra since day one and disliked Merrick a lot. Tayra quickly changes the subject. "You know who thinks you're cute? Mary, you should ask her out." Such a simple sentence with such a heavy connotation. At work he is quite different in his personal life. He is direct, projected confidence, and could care less if the people at work liked him. Apparently Mary really liked it when he ordered her around. That should have been a red flag but because Tayra said it his dick listened. Pretty soon a group date was set up and organized as their first date.
  9. Chapter 3 - Roommates It did not take long for him and his new roommates to get on each other's nerves. Ken and Josh would leave the place a mess and rarely clean after themselves. Then complain to Barker that he did not clean up after himself enough. He tried to fit in and get along with them and to not be socially awkward. One day he was feeling particularly social. Ken had his girlfriend over and she invited him to join them. Surprising even himself he agreed to smoke pot with them. It probably didn't help that Ken's girlfriend was very cute and he probably would have agreed to anything. Though, it didn't go as expected they quickly disappeared into their room with pizza. Leaving him a little buzzed, hungry, and alone. That night he awoke hungry and decided to head into the kitchen. He was used to walking in the dark so he didn't turn on any lights. In the kitchen he felt like he could hear some moaning. Peaking his head around the corner he saw Ken and his girlfriend on the couch having sex. As his eyes took in her naked form they made contact with her open eyes. Quickly pulling back his heart racing. Did she see him he wonders. "Mmm yes fuck me." Her moaning seemed to get louder and more descriptive. Daring to look back her eyes are closed now. He can feel his hard cock now. Mesmerized by her tight body getting pounded. Her tits in his hands bouncing with every thrust. Her moans were driving him crazy. Pulling his cock out he starts masturbating. Staring at her tits as she was fucked roughly. "I'm Cumming" Her voice pierces the air. Almost on command at her words his cock erupts all over the kitchen floor. Sliding down the wall he catches his breath. After awhile he hears those two head back to Ken's room. Cleaning up the kitchen floor he heads back to his room. Wondering if she knew he was there. In the end it didn't really change their opinion or attitude towards him. They just mocked him when he commented that he didn't really think that it did anything for him. --------- One day after coming home from work. Exhausted from a long day he opened the door to the apartment. Barker was removing post-it notes from the wall. "What's going on?" "Josh put up notes around the place on all the things he wants us to clean." That was the last straw. He said nothing day after day about having strangers in the apartment who Josh was dealing his pot too. One of them being Donny a frequent client of Josh's. Who was always stoned on their couch. When Josh's boyfriend suddenly moved in but didn't pay rent or the fucking dog his boyfriend brought with him. God he hated the little yapper and that dog hated him. No these post-it notes we it. They needed to get out of this place. Luckily his name was never on the lease and he could leave at anytime but that was not true for Barker. Barker was his best friend and as long as he had known him people had taken advantage of him being a nice guy. The nickname was a prime example. Barkers first name was Michael. It was not the he necessarily disliked liked the nickname Barkers but secretly it did irritate him a little. Not that he would have ever told anyone that. "Fuck. Josh is an asshole. We need to get out of here Michael." "I know." The only problem was now they not only needed to find a new place but also new roommates. Rent in the Los Angeles area was high and the two of the couldn't afford not having roommates. ------- Back at work he was complaining to Mandy about the situation. Since the party Mandy had quickly become one his closest acquaintances at work. "We need a new place I just don't know anyone that needs roommate." "You should ask Tayra. She is currently living with Merrick and his mom and she needs to move out. A simple suggestion but one that was going to complicate matters. At the time it seemed a no brainer. Merrick was super controlling and he had become close friends with Tayra. Though when she started dating Merrick she saw less of most everyone. It didn't take long to get Tayra on board. Rounding out the new roommate situation was another coworker of there's, Lacy. A month later the new group of four had signed a lease and moved into a new place. Little did he know that the new situation was not going to go as planned.
  10. Chapter 2 - Hentai Time has passed and as they say time heals all. In the end being friends with Tayra was probably better than dating her. While he enjoyed her company they wanted different things in life. So his circle of work friends grew all from his desire to sleep with Tayra. Even the woman from the party, her name he found out after words was Mandy, was different than their original encounter. Turns out she was so drunk she didn't even remember him being there. One of Barkers roommates had moved out and Barkers roommate, Josh, okayed him moving in. The living situation was tense but luckily Josh was either not home or in his room. It helped that he brought a computer with him. A computer that quickly became a communal one much to his annoyance. Barker was super into anime and manga. Something he had limited knowledge on. The only stuff he had ever scene was the old dragon ball or sailor moon stuff on toonami growing up. Reading Barkers manga opened up a whole new world of stories for him. --------- One night when everyone was at work he was playing a game on the computer. Getting to a spot he was stuck on he switched to the browser. Scrolling through the browser history he looked for his favorite gaming guide site. Something caught his eye. Anime milf reamed hard. Only one person in this house would watch this. Clicking on the history link a website opened up. A video labeled taboo charming mother starts playing. The animation is of good quality and the female characters voice is sexy and sultry. Watching her anime tits bouncing up and drown. The moans she would make as she masturbated instantly made him hard. Stroking his dick he quickly watched all the episodes of that ova. Flipping back through the episodes. What scene did he want to finish on? First episode. Dildo masturbation. Yes that one. Going back to that scene. Watching her character shove the dildo in picks up the pace. His hand swirling around his cock head. In the video she cums moaning out loud. With a grunt he cums. Filling the washcloth on his keyboard. Slumping back in his chair exhausted. Two new fetishes gained in one night. Hentai and Female masturbation.
  11. *This is a work in progress. I don't know how smut filled it will be but it's a story that has been banging around in my head for awhile. I am also playing around with formatting and going less dialogue and more in the characters head. You know a wallflower* Chapter One - First Crush "I'm going to cum. Fill me up!" The sultry female voice moaned out.The sounds of sex filled the one studio apartment in downtown Hollywood. His hand gripped his cock. Rubbing furiously he could feel his orgasm rising. Suddenly banging on the wall. He is about to crest. He can feel the orgasm about erupt out of him and a voice from the other side of the wall. "Stop watching porn and get a girl." "Fuck." He moans his cum spilling out and plastering his keyboard. Instead of hearing the sexy voice begging for his seed he heard his old hag of a neighbor. Sighing he turns it off and starts cleaning his keyboard. Looking up at the clock. "Fuck work." Quickly wiping of his cock he pulls up his boxers. Smearing the last bits of cum on the inside. Grabbing his work clothes and a pop-tart he quickly opens his front door. As he heads out the door his neighbor pokes her head into the hallway. "Masturbating will make you blind young man. God is watching." She shouts at him as he avoids her eyes. He wants to yell at her and tell her to go fuck herself or shout Satan rules but that is just not him. Instead he avoids this conflict just like all the others. Besides he still has to hand her a rent check at the start of the month. As he drives to work he can't help but smile. Tayra is working a shift today and after work everyone was going to another coworkers party. He normally avoids parties but he wants to change a little. Mainly he wants her. He wants to grab her ass in those jeans she wears to work and give them a squeeze. Taste those lips on his as he pulls her into a passionate kiss. "Hey asshole get moving." The driver behind him shouts. His light had turned green. Shaking his head from the fantasy. Today is going to be the day. The day of action not fantasy. The day of success. ---------------- "Going to the party later?" "Yeah I am Tayra. Do you want to maybe get some food before the party?" "Oh umm I am going to dinner with Merrick before. We have kind of started dating." It was the end of their shift. Heading out to the parking lot he had worked up the courage to ask her out. Though before he can her words hit him like a ton of bricks. Too late, too slow, too passive. He has heard a variation of those words his entire life. Doing his best to brush it off he smiles. "I am so glad for you guys he seems really cool." Great now he has to go to the party. At least he won't be alone there. Picking his best friend up at his place they drive through the streets of LA. 'Barkers', not his real name but a nickname based on the spelling of his last name, had been his best friend since college. In fact they would be sharing an apartment but for Barkers pot dealing roommate. He didn't want 'the nerd' as a roommate. His nickname was not a cleaver play on his last name. Everyone loved Barker's and he fit in wherever he went. You know that moment in cheers where Norm enters the room and everyone yells 'Norm'. Well that was Barker. Every where he went people would yell 'Barkers' or 'Barkey'. Part of him would be jealous of his friend, and part of him probably was, but he knew that none of those people actually knew his friend as well as he did. Having his friend there would give him some comfort at the party. --------------- His friend was a big hit at the party. It's not like his colleagues didn't like him. They did. He just didn't know how to connect with them socially. A problem Barkers didn't have. Maybe it was the lack of alcohol as liquid courage, he didn't like how it made him feel or the taste. He found himself in the corner nursing a virgin coke. Getting lost in his thoughts. A woman approaches. "Are you going to state at my tits all night perv?" "What...no...I was just..." "Whatever virgin loser." Laughing she walks away. Not the first time his staring into space has resulted in an interaction like that. Probably won't be the last. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts he scans the room. He hears Tayra laughing and spys her and Merrick. She is looking sexy in a dress that clings to her figure. Merrick rubbing her arm up and down slowly. Looking the other direction he sees Barkers with a large group laughing. He stumbled a little. They have been friends long enough for him to recognize when his friend has hit his limit drinking. Saying goodbye to the party host. Everyone says goodbye. Barkers was an instant hit and everyone wanted to invite him to their next thing. After seeing his friend home relief washes over him. More than four people is an anxiety inducing crowd for him and he is happy to be home. Picking up his mail he sees the package he had ordered sitting under the pile. Inside was purchased of sex toy. It took him too long to get over the stigma and just order it and here it was. Sitting down at his computer he boots up the Internet. His mind wanders back to the party. Tayra in her dress. The woman's voluptuous cleavage. Dropping his pants he starts looking through his porn images. Rubbing his cock to vanilla images of naked women. There legs parted seductively. Rubbing his hand dry over his cock he feels the familiar build up. Spying an image that reminds him of Tayra he stops. Opening the box he pulls out the pocket pussy he ordered. It came with a little pack of lube. Pouring it into the hole he fingers the little fleshy opening. Looking at the image that looked like his crush he thrust his cock inside. Shaking he falls to the ground his cock immediately spewing forth his lode. The glands on his cock going in over drive. Panting he had never cum so hard or so fast before. Panting for a minute he slowly pulls his sensitive cock out of his new toy.
  12. Rise of an Incubus In a realm different than our own creatures are born and live in a pool of desire. They have no physical form, at least not a physical form as we might know. Instead they are beings of energy. That feed off and absorb the energy of others. They have individual personalities but a shared form and a shared desire to grow, copulate, and evolve. Looking over her shoulder Sha'ani breathed out a blast of cold air in the damp dungeon. Flipping through the spell book she was getting frustrated. "It is not here." She groaned throwing her books to the floor. She could hear the army was closing in. "That dam Kara." She muttered. She had asked her for just a little time before reporting the theft but that goody two shoes just had to report her. With a huff she blew her long dark hair out of her face. Standing up she stood in the middle of the magic circle she had drawn on the floor. Taking a deep breath her slim figure trembled slightly under the robe. "Magic was about taking risks after all." She mumbled to herself. So what if the spell didn't exist she would create it. Hearing the army breaking down the door she knew it was now or never. Starting the chant of power the runes and crystals began glowing with an intense light. Enveloping her in white light In another world the darkness stirred. It felt the walls between realities weakening. This was it. This was it's chance to leave. To go where none of it's kind had gone before. Reaching out in the darkness it saw a bright light. Moving it's form towards the light it could feel itself separating from it's kind. With a flash the white light turned dark. As the creature merged with the energy of her spell. The energy ripping Sha'ani's robe to pieces. All the magic in the room burst. Lighting the room on fire. As the energy surged through Sha'ani her body shook in orgasm. She let out a moan as her body experienced an orgasm like never before. Her hands gripping her supple breasts in pleasure. Collapsing she fell into the crystal in the center of the circle her pussy juice splashing onto it. The energy following a food source it had never tasted before rushed towards the crystal becoming trapped inside it. Sha'ani quickly regaining her senses. Looked around at the burning building and the crystal she had stolen. Now pulsing with a dark energy. A smile spread across her lips. Success. She quickly grabs the crystal and warps out of there before the army comes crashing in the room. One year later. A maid enters her masters study. She must be quick about it before her master scolds her again. Reaching out she touches the crystal. The entity in the crystal reaches its mind out at her presence. "Hello again." It asks trying to figure a way out of the prison it is stuck in. The young maids fingers tremble. She doesn't know why but being around this artifact makes her feel things. Things she has never felt before but knows she wants to feel again and again. "Are you okay?" She asks. Noticing the light in the crystal seemed to be getting dimmer. "Just hungry." It replied. Just then Sha'ani bursts into the room and the maid pretends to be cleaning around the bookshelf. "What are you doing in here?" She snaps making sure her crystal wasn't touched. It had become a source of power and wealth for her this past year. Though she had felt its power diminishing and was becoming increasingly paranoid about it. "J...j..just cleaning like you asked master." The maids voice trembling as she spoke. Just then Sha'ani's attention is pulled away. "Kara what does she want now!" With a humph she slams the door and stalks down the hall. "Why do you do what she asks?" The entity asks the maid. "Because she is my master and my life is hers to control." She replies. "That's just the way life is." She turns to leave but something in her stops her. Sensing this the entity sees a chance to change it's fate. "Do you want to change your fate?" The words hang in the maids mind. That night the maid sneaked into Sha'ani's room. She gripped the crystal in her hand. She didn't know why she was doing this. She just knew she wanted to feel the way the crystal made her feel forever. Creeping towards her master's bed she lifted the covers. It had said it needed to feed on energy. Her master slept naked. Her ample bosom rising and falling as she breathed. Taking the crystal the maid closed her eyes. Without looking she shoved it inside her master's pussy. With a shout Sha'ani woke up grasping towards the crystal but it was to late. The entity poured forth from the crystal bringing her to the edge of climax but denying her release. The maid hit by a wave of lust starts playing with herself in the corner one hand in her wet pussy the other on her tit. With every denied climax the entity grew stronger. Feeding off the sexual energy of the young mage. The crystal and the entity start merging with Sha'ani's body. Her mind breaking as she moans seeking the pleasure of orgasmic release. A pleasure her body was being denied. The maid awakening slowly blinks her eyes. How long was she out? Looking down at her hand deep inside her own pussy. She gingerly extracts it with a pop. Her sexual fluids coating the ground her body sore from so many orgasms. Her stomach growled. How many days had passed? How many orgasms did she experience? Looking over at Sha'ani. Her face contorted in lust. Desperate for an orgasm she is humping the air. Looking the other way she sees it. Standing tall. Muscular shoulders flexing. The entity smiles at the maid. "Congratulations you are made of better stuff than her." He gestures towards her master. "Are you..." Before she can finish speaking he interrupts her. "Your new master? Yes I am." "What about her?" She asks pointing towards Sha'ani. "Her mind is broken. She is nothing but cattle now. But you...yes you will be helpful." Reaching out his hand the maid takes it. Yes he can feel the untapped potential of this land. Now he just needs to breed. He needs to find a mate who could survive the process. It might take 10000 years but he will find a mate and begin his plan. Far into the future a waitress approaches a man sitting in his office. He is watching a screen of the people in his club. "Master you called me." She asked bowing her head. He looks up smiling at his oldest and only friend in this world. "Yes. I found her." The entity smiled.
  13. The Thorns of Briarhold The moon hung low over the ruins of Briarhold, its silver light catching on the shattered spires and curling ivy like a beckoning finger. Lanternflies shimmered in the mist, their glow a soft pulse in the still air. Somewhere beyond the crumbling gatehouse, something sang, not in words, but in a voice that brushed the skin like a breath, trailing heat behind it. Callen paused at the threshold, heart knocking in his chest. He was twenty summers old and not yet used to the weight of a sword on his hip, though he wore it proudly. His cloak was still too new , and his boots had barely known mud, but already the brambles here had left greenish smears across the polished leather. He took a step forward. "You'll want to go slowly," came a voice from the darkness, smooth, measured, like warm honey sliding down a goblet. Callen turned, hand on the hilt. “Who’s there?” From the shadow of a broken pillar stepped a figure. They were tall, moved with a languid grace, and were dressed in deep violet robes that shimmered like oil in the moonlight. They had hair like black water, long and loose, framing a face so fine it was neither male nor female but both at once. They were dangerously beautiful. “I might ask you the same,” the figure said, smile curling like incense smoke. “You don’t look like a grave-robber or a scholar. Are you here for the Thorn?” Callen blinked. “The Thorn?” The stranger stepped closer, circling him. “Oh, sweet boy. You’ve come seeking treasure and don’t even know its name.” Fingers brushed his shoulder as they passed behind him. “Briarhold was once home to the Court of Vines, a decadent little kingdom, all tangled in beauty and rot. The Thorn was their crown jewel... or so the stories say. They say it blooms only for the one who dares to bare themselves before it.” “I’m not here for stories,” Callen said, too quickly. His voice cracked at the end. The stranger chuckled. “Then you’re in the wrong place, novice.” “I’m not...” “...a novice?” the figure interrupted, amused. “Then tell me, boy, how many ruins have you entered alone? How many times have you crossed blades with monsters? How many times have you eaten the heart of your kill?” Callen flushed hot. “None.” “Mmm,” the stranger purred, coming to stand before him. “That’s what I thought.” They were close now, closer than comfort allowed. The scent of them was heady, spice and old roses, like summer’s end. Callen wanted to step back, but his legs were rooted to the stone. Something here pulled a him. The stranger touched his cheek. “Your eagerness is like perfume,” they said. “But down here, beneath the moss and bone, eagerness becomes hunger. And hunger...” Their fingers dragged along his jaw. “ Hunger can make a boy into something else entirely.” “Who are you?” Callen whispered. “Names are for tombstones,” the stranger said. “I am the one who never left Briarhold. I am the one who dances between the petals and the thorns.” They turned and beckoned. Despite every warning stitched into Callen’s thoughts, he followed. The path wound through dead arches and vines so thick they barely moved when touched. Pale white blossoms opened as they passed, sighing with soft breath. No animals stirred here. No birds called. There was only the weight of old magic and something darker... a hunger Callen felt like a prey animal feels the predators' presence. The tall being led him to a sunken garden, overgrown with twisted roses. In its center stood a pedestal, and on it, a black stem coiled like wrought iron, topped with a single crimson bloom. “The Thorn,” they said, gesturing as if to a lover. “It waits. It tests.” “For what?” Callen asked, voice dry. “For the brave, the foolish, the curious.... it doesn’t care what name they wear.” Callen stepped forward. The air grew warmer. The scent of the flower made his blood hum. Each breath filled him with something that wasn’t his, heat and longing and the echo of mouths he’d never kissed. The Thorn seemed to watch him. “Does it… bite?” he asked. The creature laughed, low and decadent. “Only if you want it to.” They came up behind him, their breath soft at his ear. “Touch it.” Callen hesitated. “What happens if I do?” “Then the garden blooms,” they said, lips nearly touching his neck. “And perhaps… you bloom with it.” The Thorn pulsed. Callen wasn’t sure if it was light or movement, but it called to him. He reached out, some part of him telling him it was wrong, but unable to stop himself. His fingers brushed the petals, and there was a prick, sharp, but not painful.... then warmth, spreading up his arm like wine. He stumbled back, dizzy. The garden shimmered. Flowers opened all around, vines coiling, slow and sinuous, like dancers waking from sleep. And the person... thing standing behind him... changed. Their eyes glowed like embers now. Thorns crowned their brow. Their robe fell open, revealing skin as smooth and pale as moon-petals, and patterns beneath that shimmered like tattoos of vines wrapping down their ribs and hips. At the front of their smooth, white body, a black thorn grew like a cock, smooth, long, and impossibly hard. They were not human, nor were they fae. They were something older, something hungrier, and Callen couldn’t look away. “I thought I’d imagined it,” they murmured, stepping forward. “That someone like you would come. So untouched. So unsure.” They reached out, and Callen found himself stepping forward, drawn by something more than sight. “I—” Callen began, but they placed a finger to his lips. “Don’t speak. Not with words. Let the Thorn teach you.” Their hands met. A tremor passed between them, shuddering, intimate. It was not lust, not yet, but it held the potential for lust. It was the whisper before the kiss, the hush before fingers find hidden places. Callen felt heat pool low in his belly, his skin burning in the cool night. They didn’t touch him, not truly, but every inch of space between them seemed charged. He saw himself reflected in their eyes, wide-eyed, trembling, yearning. And he saw them too, cloaked in beauty like a blade sheathed in silk. “Will it hurt?” Callen asked. “Oh,” they said, smiling, “some truths should hurt.” They leaned in. Their lips brushed his cheek, soft as a petal, lingering like a promise. "I will not force you," they whispered. "You may run... but if you stay, you’ll never forget how this place made you feel.” And Callen, novice, trembling, awakening, did not run.
  14. When Harper’s lease fell through at the last second, she was stuck. City rentals were impossible to snag mid-month, and her budget didn’t leave a lot of wiggle room. It was supposed to be just a few nights crashing with her brother’s old college roommate, someone she remembered vaguely from years ago, all sarcastic smiles and confident swagger. But when she showed up at his apartment, he wasn’t the greasy, annoying boy she half-remembered. He was older now, calmer, handsomer, somehow. And maybe it was the wide shoulders or the way he held her gaze too long, but something about him felt… different., dangerous in a quiet way. Still, she had nowhere else to go. He said she could stay as long as she needed. ~~~~~ The first few nights passed without incident. Harper kept her duffel bag tucked neatly under the edge of the couch. Leo worked late. She tried to stay out of his way. But on the third night, she’d fallen asleep in one of his old college t-shirts, oversized and threadbare, only to wake up to him tossing a blanket over her. His hand brushed her bare thigh for just a second longer than it needed to. Neither of them said a word about it the next morning. ~~~~~ Things became routine. She made coffee in the morning. He cooked at night. Casual, easy. But then there was the towel incident. She came out of the shower wrapped only in a towel, thinking the coast was clear. It wasn’t. He was standing in the kitchen, drinking something cold, leaning against the counter like he had every right to be there, which he did. It was his place. But she didn't see him, bent low looking in the fridge. When he cleared his throat from behind her, she nearly dropped the towel. He didn’t look away. “You’ve got shampoo in your hair,” he said, eyes never leaving her. She laughed, awkward and breathless. “Right. Cool. Thanks.” They never talked about that either. ~~~~~ One night, it rained hard. The thunder shook the old windows. They shared a bottle of wine on the couch, her legs curled beneath her, the flicker of the TV ignored. “You know,” she said, watching his profile in the glow, “this isn’t how I imagined it.” “What isn’t?” “Living with someone again. It’s... comfortable.” He looked over at her, unreadable. “Comfortable’s not always a bad thing.” She took another sip, then leaned her head back on the couch, her eyes half-closed. “No. It’s not.” He didn’t move closer. But he didn’t move away, either. ~~~~~ It was later that night, the wine still warming her and fogging her mind. She couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking of how close he had been. It was late. Too late. She’d been staring at the ceiling long enough to know she wasn’t going to fall asleep without something... or someone... distracting her thoughts. So she padded down the hallway, paused at his door, raised her hand. She knocked once. And waited.
      • 1
      • Love
  15. Kara had never hated her reflection more. No matter how many times she adjusted her collar, smoothed her skirt, or rechecked the barely-there swipe of mascara, she couldn’t shake the heat prickling just beneath her skin. Her fingers fidgeted at her hemline... too short? No, perfectly office-appropriate. Just like everything else she wore around him. Around Mr. Vale. The name alone sent a flutter low in her stomach, though she’d never admit it out loud. It was ridiculous, really. He was her boss... polished, commanding, unshakably composed. He was thirty-seven, maybe thirty-eight, tall and fit, with the kind of angular face that belonged on a luxury watch ad... sharp cheekbones, stubble that always looked intentional, eyes like frost... cool, unreadable, and too damned observant. And his voice... She clenched her thighs without meaning to at the memory of it: low, perfectly measured, like he’d studied how to make syllables linger where they shouldn’t. Once, when she was the last to leave a strategy meeting, he’d said something behind her, just an offhand comment about initiative, but it had landed in her spine like a strike. He hadn’t touched her. He hadn’t needed to. That was the thing about him. He didn’t have to cross any lines to make you wonder exactly how far you’d go if he asked. And now he had asked. "My office. 5:15. Close the door." No explanation. No subject line. No context. Just the implication... just him. Kara swallowed hard and tried to summon her professionalism like armor. Maybe it was a reprimand. Maybe she’d blown the account. But she hadn’t, she knew she hadn’t. She’d nailed it... and maybe that was even worse. She didn’t know if she was walking in to be punished or praised. She didn’t know which she craved more, and the part of her that did crave something, craved him, was the part she’d spent months locking behind stapled reports and careful emails and power-heeled detachment. But now there were only ten minutes left. Ten minutes until she walked into his office, just the two of them, just the sound of the door clicking shut behind her. Kara touched her lips. Neutral lipstick. Perfectly neutral. And yet, inside, everything was not.
  16. When the magic finally recedes, it doesn’t leave emptiness, it leaves afterlight. We lie tangled, barely breathing, our bodies humming like vessels too full to still. Sweat cools slowly on my skin, and where our chests touch, I feel not just heartbeat, but resonance. Something new hums inside us, like a chord struck too deep to fade. The runes have gone quiet. They no longer glow, but they have changed, melted, rearranged themselves into a symbol that wasn’t there before. Neither of us recognizes it, and yet… we know it. It’s us. It is our bond. It is not a word, nor a name. It is a mark, burned not into our skin, but into our existence. I move first, only slightly. My muscles ache, but not with pain. More like they’ve been rewritten, tuned. My limbs feel unfamiliar, stronger, lighter. His hands trail down my arms as I sit up, as if needing to feel every part of me again to be sure I’m real. I am. We both are. Only… we are not as we were. The air is different now. The sanctum holds its breath around us, the way deep water does when something enormous passes below. We’re not watched, but we are witnessed. The ritual did not simply conclude. It culminated. It made something… us… that wasn’t meant to exist. I look at him, and he’s already looking at me. His eyes are brighter. Not glowing, but deeper, wilder, as if seeing with more than sight, as if seeing me in ways no one ever has or can. He reaches for my hand. When our fingers meet, the bond ignites again, but not with need... with knowing. I feel his body even without touching it now, the shape of his hunger, the rhythm of his thoughts. His affection is a warmth in my chest. His wonder, gods, his wonder, fills me like breath, and I feel him feel me back. There is no longer a boundary between our inner lives, not fully. We are not one mind, nor are we mindless, but we are linked inextricably, permanently. Not even death would separate this thread. The ancients never told us this could happen. The Binding was supposed to be sacred, not transformative, not… fusing. And there is more. I feel it in my blood. The leyline has not only settled, it has nested in us. The power does not flow through us like vessels. It lives in us. We are no longer its guardians, we are its embodiment. We are the Binding now. I see it mirrored in his face as he touches his own chest. The sigil there is gone, replaced by the mark the runes left behind, the same one that now rests between my breasts, still faintly glowing, a perfect match. There are no rituals for this, no laws, no names. There is only us, only this. And whatever the world may try to call it when we step back into it, It will never understand what we are. But we will. We were born apart, trained for duty, bound by command… and now we are made for each other, utterly, irrevocably, and forever.
  17. We are past words now, past movement. Even our bodies, still joined, have quieted into a rhythm too slow for lovers and too steady for ritual. We are not fucking, we are fused. Every shift of my hips sends a ripple of pleasure into his spine, and back into mine. Every thought curls into sensation, every desire becomes action without action. We are feeling each other’s need in real time and feeding it. It begins again with his mind brushing mine like silk against fevered skin. A thought, barely formed: her mouth, and instantly I feel it, his memory of it, twisted into new fantasy. My mouth on his chest, warm and wet, my tongue tracing the scar just above his heart. I feel his pulse surge, not only in the bond, but inside me, where we are still connected, still pulsing in tandem. I moan softly. He hears it with his ears, but also feels it where my pleasure touches his thoughts. He knows it wasn’t just the phantom sensation, it was him, his imagining, his need, satisfied by my reaction. He is pleasuring me with thoughts alone. I answer. I send him something darker, something secret. The image of my thighs wrapping tighter, my nails down his back, my voice breaking as I beg him to fuck me harder until I lose language altogether. I send him the memory of the exact sound I made when he filled me the first time, amplified, exaggerated, dripping with submission. He gasps out loud, and then he grips me, physically, hands on my hips, holding me in place as his body finally starts to move again, driven not by instinct but by the echo of the thought I gave him. A rhythm pulled straight from fantasy…. my fantasy. He rides it like a song we’ve both been aching to sing. Each thrust now carries thought. Each thrust becomes a word in a growing language built only for the two of us: I need you. I want you. I feel you. You are mine. I am yours. The magic responds again. The runes bloom, glowing brighter than ever, and for the first time, they lift off the floor. Lines of glowing script float around us in spirals, singing in a tongue neither of us knows but both understand. The magic is celebrating. Not just the completion of the ritual, but the transformation we’ve given it. We have gone beyond spell, beyond rite. We have turned binding into becoming. And still… deeper. I feel him inside me, not just his body but the weight of him, the certainty. I feel what it means for him to trust me. The way he’s giving up control not just of his pleasure, but of his mind. He’s let me inside, fully. He’s naked in the way no one is ever naked, not skin, but soul. He opens himself to me with every push of his hips. And I open back. I send him everything… my want, my ache, the secret place inside that I swore I’d never show anyone. And when he touches it, not physically, but in thought, I come undone. My body arches, clenching around him, pulling him deeper, and he follows. We fall into it together, orgasm not as a moment, but as immersion. We do not scream. We merge. And the magic… the ancient, waiting magic… accepts us.
  18. I shift just slightly, just enough to tighten the seal of our bodies again. He’s still inside me, impossibly hard still, but there’s no friction now, no urgency. There is only pressure, presence, the kind of closeness that makes the world outside the sanctum feel irrelevant. His breath hitches when I move. I feel it in my own chest and I smile. You felt that, I think, not even intending to speak, just knowing the bond will carry it. His answer isn't a thought. It's a feeling. A slow wave of molten pleasure, like fingers sliding up the inside of my thigh. But his hands haven’t moved. I gasp. My back arches and my body clenches around him instinctively. The sensation wasn’t real… but it was real enough. My mind lit up as if he had touched me there, and I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s playing with me. You imagined that, I send back, half breathless, half delighted. That wasn’t real. He responds with a thought shaped like a smirk, and then thinks, imagine this, and suddenly I feel his mouth on my neck…. No… in my neck. The pressure, the heat, the exact angle of his teeth grazing skin… it's all there, not imagined by me, but projected by him. It lands with shocking precision. My nipples harden. My breath stutters. My hands clutch at his arms like the ghost of the sensation is too much. He chuckles against my thoughts. This time, I respond in kind. I close my eyes, sink deeper into the bond, and picture what I want to do to him. I imagine my mouth at his throat, my tongue tracing the strong ridge of muscle where it meets his collarbone. I imagine sliding lower, taking him fully, slowly, greedily… worshipfully. His body twitches beneath mine. His thoughts flare, hot, ragged, needy. I smile, triumphant. He’s not immune. You like that? I whisper across the thread. His answer is a groan, mental, emotional, and nearly physical. I feel it shudder through his spine. I feel the tightness in his hands. The desire in his hips. And then, I feel something even more erotic… longing. The ache of wanting me…. not just my body. Me. My thoughts. My hunger. My secrets. He wants to be inside all of it. I send back a thought of my own. A fantasy of riding him in slow rhythm, holding his face in my hands, staring down into his eyes as I come apart again and again, of telling him, aloud or in thought... you’re mine. His reply is instant. A sensation that isn’t words but rather a surrender. A deep, soul-rich thrum that means yes, take me, stay here. Fill me and be filled. It’s foreplay without motion, sex without friction, climax without end. The bond pulses again, tightening, deepening, and I realize we could go on like this forever… bodies locked in slow, sacred union, minds wrapped in unending arousal, pleasure not as peak, but as state, as language… and gods, I never want to stop.
  19. I’m still on him. His hands are cradling the curve of my back, thumbs tracing light circles at the base of my spine. Our bodies are slick where we joined… where we are still joined, still connected, but neither of us moves. We lie in a pocket of silence that feels bigger than the sanctum, a pause suspended in the aftermath of something so large, it can’t be named. My breathing is slowing, but I can feel his breath, too, not on my skin, but inside me. It’s not metaphor anymore. He’s in me… thought, sensation, weightless impressions moving beneath the surface of my mind like fingers drifting across silk. There’s no boundary. My own thoughts rise like breath, and I feel them brushed aside, gently, by his presence as it moves within me like a second heartbeat. I don’t resist it. I want him to be there. His eyes are open. So are mine. We don’t speak, we can’t… not when our bodies are still pulsing with that golden afterglow, not when our souls are too entangled for speech to carry meaning. Words would be clumsy, loud, unnecessary. Instead, we feel each other. And the sensations that rise now aren’t just echoes of pleasure, they’re fresh, erotic, curious. We are still inside each other, but now it is thought that slides across thought, memory across memory. His admiration wraps around me like warm sheets. His desire curls between my thighs like a question I want to answer again. It’s arousing. He sees that. I feel the flicker of it, the way my arousal triggers his own, how his growing heat presses not just between my legs but through the thread connecting us. The longer we stare into each other’s eyes, the less we are two people lying in sacred afterglow, and the more we become one current, one flame licking higher, fed by shared want. I feel him remembering how I gasped against his neck. He feels me imagining what it would be like to ride him slowly this time, eyes locked, taking him in inch by inch until he groans aloud. That thought, his groan, flashes into his mind, and then into mine, and suddenly I’m moaning softly at nothing but the image of him moaning for me. It feeds on itself, a sensual feedback loop made of yearning and hunger and the shocking beauty of being known. Our bodies are barely moving, but our minds are fucking… and it is exquisite. He strokes a hand up my spine, just once, and I feel it on my skin and in my soul. The touch echoes, magnified by memory and desire. I want to shiver. I want to cry. I want to move again, to take this new closeness and stretch it across another climax, a shared rising. He thinks it and I feel it… and then we both smile, still no words, just agreement. We are not done, not yet… maybe not ever.
  20. It doesn’t stop. The magic doesn’t peak and fade, like I was taught. It builds, and builds, and builds. We are joined, physically, completely, and yet the leyline’s current does not quiet. It floods through me in waves, not unlike pleasure, not unlike pain. It’s raw and primal and infinite. It doesn’t just touch us, it reworks us. I feel it in my marrow, in the smallest pulses behind my eyes. I feel it in the place where he fills me and the way my body grips him in return, tight, involuntary, needing. I gasp into his shoulder, nails curling against the sculpted plane of his back. His skin is slick, not with sweat, but with light, the runes seeping through him, through both of us, carving new paths. I should be afraid, but I’m not. We move slowly, rhythmically. The magic urges us forward, not with haste, but with deep, inexorable pull, like tides pulled by the moon. Each movement sinks him deeper into me. Each thrust is an offering. Each breath is a vow. He feels it, too. I can sense it in him now, with no veil between us. His thoughts are stripped bare. He had not expected this, not the desire, not the surrender. He had prepared for duty, thought he would retain control. He expected a sacred joining devoid of meaning beyond the magical. He hadn’t prepared to feel this. Neither had I. With every meeting of our bodies, I feel his wonder, his restraint slipping. The reverent way he holds me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish, and the deeper truth, that he wants me to stay, that he doesn’t want this moment to end. And then… the runes change. Their color deepens, no longer golden white, but violet and molten blue, the shades of starbirth and ancient bloodlines. And I feel something else take root. We are being marked. It is not just our flesh, but our bond. A magical tether now loops between us, invisible but undeniable, threading heart to heart, soul to soul. The ritual has gone beyond its original purpose. It’s rewriting us, claiming us for something more. I moan, unable to hold it back as his hands find the curve of my waist, lifting me into him again, and again. His mouth is at my neck now, not biting, not kissing, but breathing me in. I don’t know if this is still magic or need. Perhaps it is both. A climax builds, but it’s not the kind that ends in screams. This is transcendence. This is merging. As I come apart around him, as our bodies tighten and writhe in shared ecstasy, I feel the leyline flare… and I see his memories. I see the first time he bled in combat, kneeling in the sand, alone. I see the girl he loved once, and how she left. I see the hunger he carries, not just for flesh, but for belonging. He sees mine, too… the pain of exile. The weight of perfection. The cold ache of wanting someone to look at me not with awe, but with need. We are no longer strangers bound by ritual. We are each other's secrets, each other’s mirror, and now we are bound, not just for the night, not just for the magic… forever.
  21. His skin is fire beneath my palm… not heat, exactly, but presence. It is like touching something forged, something meant to be. My hand is still on his chest, right over the sigil carved into his flesh years before I knew his name. I can feel his pulse under it, steady, reluctant, but willing. The magic wants more. It pulses around us, through us. The runes on the floor are no longer humming, they are thrumming, impatient. The walls of the sanctum breathe with light, like a great lung has filled and now waits for release. The air shivers, and so do I. We’ve crossed the first veil, mind to mind, memory to memory, but the ritual is incomplete. To bind the leyline, to awaken the old path, we must join, body to body, skin to skin. I thought I was ready, but now, facing him… no ceremony can prepare you for this, for the reverence in his gaze, for the way his hand lifts not to claim, not to demand, but to ask. He places it at my waist, featherlight, as if giving me a final chance to step away. I don’t. I reach up and touch his jaw. My thumb brushes the place just beneath his mouth where the stubble grows thicker. I wonder if he knows how long I’ve wanted to do that. Then, in silence, we move together. There is no rush, no lust, though something deeper simmers beneath it. This is devotion. This is breath and heartbeat and trust. My robe slips from one shoulder, and then the other. He doesn’t look away. He watches like I’m something sacred. And when I step forward, letting my bare chest press against the warmth of his body, I feel him exhale like a prayer. He bends low, just enough to lift me. My legs wrap around him instinctively. It's required for the ritual, yes, but it doesn’t feel like duty, it feels like home. Our foreheads meet again as he carries me to the center of the runes. They glow white-gold now, casting our skin in flickers of starlight and memory. And then… contact, entry… full, complete. Every inch of him touches every inch of me. The alignment is too perfect. Our hips meet. Our chests rise and fall together. My body molds against his like it was always meant to. He cradles me with a gentleness I never expected from someone carved from thunder, and then the magic surges. It takes us. Light explodes behind my eyes. I feel him, not his body, not even his thoughts, but his soul, wrapping around mine like the heat of a thousand sunrises. I feel his awe, his fear, his desire… and he feels mine. All of it. There are no more secrets. No more roles. We are bare in every way, bound not just by spell or duty, but by a need neither of us dare name, and it is only the beginning.
  22. It starts in the fingertips… her hand on my chest, motionless, skin to skin, and yet I feel more than contact. I feel entry. Not intrusion, this is not a forceful thing. The old magic was made for two, it knows how to slip between barriers. It tastes of breath and memory, of open doors long closed. I feel her curiosity first, cool and clean, like mountain air. She is tasting me the way I taste her, each of us unraveling threads we were trained to keep wound tight. Her thoughts aren’t clear, not exactly, not words, more like flashes, sensations. The feeling of her father’s gloves when he placed the binding medallion around her neck as a girl. The cold floor of the northern sanctum when she took her vows. The way she used to run alone through corridors of iceglass and not care who was watching, just to feel her blood move. She misses that. Then, sharply, too suddenly, she feels me. I know the moment it happens, because she gasps, quiet, but real. I don’t know what she sees. Maybe the desert winds rising over the firefields. Maybe the moment I was marked at seventeen by the Elders, when they branded the sigil into my chest and told me I’d be bound someday, that my soul would be only half-mine from that point forward. But what surprises me… is how she stays. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t retreat. She wants to know me, and I want to show her. I lower my head a little, our foreheads nearly touching. We haven't embraced. Our bodies barely meet. But inside, gods, we are already tangled. Her emotions brush mine in ways I cannot shield. I feel her longing, her loneliness. It echoes mine with terrifying precision. Neither of us expected that. This was supposed to be sacred, controlled, but the magic, older than kingdoms, older than blood, knows better. It knows craving. It was born of unions that shaped mountains and cracked the stars. It doesn’t care for restraint. I feel her hunger… not for food, not even for touch, but for recognition, for someone who sees her completely and doesn’t step back. I want to be that person, and that’s the most dangerous thought I’ve had in years. The runes on the floor flare again, hotter this time. We are late. The rite demands more. Our bodies must meet, must press, must seal, but we linger, one breath longer… because once we move we cannot go back.
  23. She is smaller than I imagined. They said she would be delicate, a pale flame… winter-born. I expected fragility, a wisp of breath that might vanish beneath my hands. But she does not feel fragile, not here, not now. She walks toward me like she knows exactly how close she’s allowed to come before the ritual truly begins and no closer. Her steps are precise. Her skin glows under the sigil-light. Her white hair is coiled in braids that gleam like silver-threaded snow, and she looks at me with eyes too steady for someone about to let a stranger press against every part of her. But I know the still ones are the ones who feel the most. I wasn’t supposed to care. This was duty. I was raised for this, bred from a line of warriors and spirit-binders whose blood burns with heat and history. My people do not hesitate, they act. We were taught that passion, when focused, channels the old forces more powerfully than any prayer. But they never taught us what to do when that passion turns inward. She’s close now. The space between us thins as the runes on the floor begin to vibrate faintly. My skin tingles and my pulse is too loud in my ears. Her hand lifts tentatively. It touches my chest, just above the heart sigil inked into my skin. She inhales sharply, whether from the warmth or the contact, I don't know… maybe both. That first touch, light, barely pressure, is all the binding needs. It begins. A low sound hums from the tiles, rising through our feet, curling up the spine like smoke through bone. I feel her in me. Not physically, no, but somewhere more vulnerable. I feel her breath hitching behind her ribcage, the flutter of anxiety she never shows on her face, the unspoken question she carries like a blade tucked behind her back: Will you hurt me? And gods help me, I want to answer it with my hands…not to harm, but to hold, to soothe, to claim something I should not want to claim. The magic was never meant to feel this human, this raw. I feel her grief, wrapped tight like frost around memory. I feel her ache, not the ceremonial kind, but the kind that stirs low, deep, hot and half-hidden. I wonder if she can feel mine too. I wonder if she knows how long I’ve wanted to touch her. The runes shift color. The chant begins to rise from the walls in voices not our own, and we are only just beginning.
  24. They say the magic won’t work if the skin doesn’t touch. That’s the first rule of the ritual, that the bodies must touch, must press, must merge in motion and breath, or the old powers won’t come. There can be no silk between them, no armor, not even linen. I was told this at thirteen, when they first told me what I was, that I’d been bred for a purpose. I was unlike anyone else. "You are of the Pale Line," they said, tracing the veins at my wrist like they could see the starlight in me. "When the time comes, your body will be called. You will answer. You will not be alone." I didn't think they meant him. He stands at the far end of the sanctum now, back turned, unfastening the drape of his ceremonial cloak. The obsidian tiles under his feet glow softly with ancestral runes, my ancestors and his, though they never walked side by side. We come from opposite ends of the world, places the other was raised to fear. I am small, slender to the point of vanishing. My skin glows almost silver in the temple light. I was born in the Winter Keep, where the sun touches only briefly and everyone speaks in breath and silence. He is a creature of flame and form, tall, broad-shouldered, skin like carved bronze warmed by desert heat. His arms are thick with ritual markings I cannot read. His gaze, when he gave it to me earlier, was steady… too steady, as if he'd already seen how this would end. I thought I was ready for the touch, the closeness. I trained for it. We both did. I know how to match breath. I know how to receive the chant while pressed skin to skin. I know where my body is supposed to align with his. The arch of my hips. The curve of his hands. It's choreography... sacred, intimate, functional. But they didn’t tell me the old magic sees deeper than that. I can already feel it rising between us, and we haven’t even touched yet. It coils in the air like vapor, warm and humming, brushing over my bare shoulder as if inviting me forward, or daring me. We are supposed to anchor the ley line. That is our duty. We were born to carry it, to bind it between us. But the magic doesn’t just flow through the flesh, it opens everything... thoughts, memories, longings too long buried, desires we were taught to suppress. It wants more than our bodies. …and I can feel him already, his presence inside me like a voice beneath my skin, not speaking, just knowing. He turns toward me. His eyes find mine. He is already bare and I have never felt so exposed.
  25. THE CHALLENGE Set your scene in a fantasy world - high fantasy, sword & sorcery, elves, goblins, rogues, warriors, succubi, whatever your lewd little heart desires! Deadline Midnight (EST) , 12 July 2025 Limits 1 entry per person no strict word limit, but please try to keep it around 2,000 words- remember, everyone has to read these to vote Prizes 1st Place: 4,000 EcchiCredits 2nd Place: 2,000 EcchiCredits 3rd Place: 1,000 EcchiCredits
  26. Post all your questions, comments, and discussions here.
  27.  
  • Newsletter

    Want to keep up to date with all our latest news and information?
    Sign Up

×
×
  • Create New...

Important Information

We have placed cookies on your device to help make this website better. You can adjust your cookie settings, otherwise we'll assume you're okay to continue. Read our Privacy Policy for more information.

Please Sign In or Sign Up