Choose Your Own Adventure
I will be writing a "Choose Your Own Adventure" style sexual misadventure.
Each chapter will have a poll for which option to choose.
Feel free to comment after each part, as the links will lead to new topics! I'd love to hear your feedback and I'm desperate for votes to help guide me towards which parts should be written next!
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You are a college student in a specialized international program focused on archaeology, anthropology, and cultural studies. Your skill with languages and high grades had earned you a place in this program along with other students from a variety of universities around the globe. This class deals in real world experiences. You don't have a dorm room; you have a bunk and footlocker on an ocean-going vessel, a tiny shared room in a youth hostel, barely enough space for your bedroll in a tent near an archaeological dig. You don't have a lab; you have actual dig sites. There is no lecture hall; lectures are delivered in mess halls, on ship decks, and out in the open desert. …
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You open your eyes and look around. You're in a dark, enclosed place... was it a cave? Some kind of ruin? Light streams in from the left and you can see that you are nowhere near where you remember falling. This place is a ruin, as you expected to find, but not the kind of ruin you expected. These ruins are much more recent. You are in a throne room, or what was once a throne room. It's a large room, excessive in size, with high vaulted ceiling and long windows along one wall. These windows are hung with richly embroidered, crimson draperies with the symbol of a black steed on them, most of them pulled closed. One window is broken, its drapery piled on the floor amid…
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The soldier in plate armor looks you up and down and sneers. "Your father is dead, Princess. House Valoryn has fallen. There's nowhere for you to run." Princess? You're an archaeology student, not a princess. What would make him think...? You look down at yourself for the first time since waking. You're wearing a gown of crimson silk that shimmers in the light coming in through the broken window. The bodice is intricately embroidered with gold filigree depicted cascading vines and blooming flowers, the neckline an elegant sweetheart curve, and you can see your more than ample breasts fill it out quite nicely. The sleeves are long and flowing, the long skirt bil…
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The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. The creatures before you remain frozen, their grotesque forms rigid, their eyeless faces locked onto you in unnatural stillness. The air itself feels wrong, charged with an unspoken command that holds them at bay. Then, a voice, low, steady, and merciless, breaks through the thick, unnatural quiet. "Your choice, female. Kneel or be fed to the chorath." The words slither into your ears like cold steel, sharp and absolute. The voice carries no hesitation, no indulgence, no cruelty, just certainty, as if your fate has already been decided, and the only thing left to determine is how much you will suffer first. Yo…
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You wake to feel cold concrete pressing against your cheek, gritty with dust and fine debris. The faint scent of mildew hangs in the air. As you stir, tiny fragments of glass crunch beneath your fingertips, and the distant sound of dripping water echoes through the stillness like a metronome. You open your eyes and look around. You're in ruins, but not the kind you expected. You sit up slowly and take in your surroundings. The space you're in is the cavernous, gutted shell of a modern office building. Desks lay overturned, their surfaces warped by time and water damage. Shattered flat-screen monitors lay strewn on the floor near most of the desks. Filing cabinets in …
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You open your eyes and look around. You're in the dark. This is not just dark, this darkness is absolute, a suffocating void that seems to pulse against your skin, pressing inward like a living thing. The air is thick and wet, heavy with the stench of decay and something metallic, like old blood. Something undefinable fills you with terror, a feeling of impending doom pressing down upon you. You have no idea why you're scared, but terror grips your heart like an icy fist. A faint glow the sickly green of rotting vegetation begins to seep through the blackness, revealing a landscape that seems to writhe and shift, as if alive. The ground beneath your feet squelches an…
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The quiet hum of fluorescent lights presses against the edges of your awareness. You open your eyes and look around. The room around you is plain and unadorned. Rows of stiff, vinyl chairs line the walls, each spaced precisely apart. A low table sits in the center, stacked neatly with outdated magazines that have been thumbed through enough times to leave the corners curled and folded. The artificial coolness of recycled air conditioning barely moves across your skin. You don’t remember walking in. You don’t remember sitting down. The last thing you remember is falling, falling into the ruins in eastern Morocco, and yet, here you are, in a waiting room with no other …
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You freeze. The man standing before you is a tower of muscle and scars, his thick frame wrapped in a chaotic patchwork of leather, rusted metal plates, and strips of matted fur. His skin is darkened with grime, his arms knotted with jagged tattoos that seem more like brands than ink. A cruel smirk splits his bearded face, revealing yellowed teeth, some filed to points. "'Ello, leashling..." he rumbles, his voice like grinding stone, thick with amusement. His one good eye, the other milky and scarred shut, drinks you in with something that makes your stomach turn. When he calls you leashing, you notice the metal and leather collars hanging from his belt and …
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You reach down and pickup the bloody sword. Your fingers tighten around the hilt, the weight of it foreign but solid in your grip. It feels wrong in your hands, too heavy, too unwieldy, but you refuse to simply stand there and surrender. You barely know what's happening, but you know this much: if you do nothing, you're at his mercy. And judging by the look in his eyes, he has none. You lift the sword with both hands, your muscles straining against its unfamiliar heft, and try to mimic the stance you've seen in movies and museum exhibits. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you take a step forward, willing your shaking limbs into action. The knight watches you…
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You don't think. You just turn and run. The gown tangles around your legs, the heavy skirts threatening to trip you with every step, but panic drives you forward. Your bare feet slap against the cold stone, the floor slick with something you don't dare think about. The shattered remains of stained-glass windows cast fractured colors across the hall as you sprint toward the archway ahead. Behind you, the knight laughs, low and cruel. "Run, then," he calls, the sound of his armored boots striking the stone in pursuit. "Let's see how far you get." Your breath comes in ragged gasps. The castle is in ruins, walls crumbling, bodies strewn across the floor. You do…
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The soldier in plate armor seems ready to pounce as he says, "Back away from the crown, you thieving bitch! I'll have your hand for stealing from our dead king." Thieving... bitch? You're an archaeology student, not a thief. What would make him think...? You look down at yourself for the first time since waking. Your clothing is all black, a dark tunic that flattens your breasts against your chest, loose fitting pants for ease of movement, and soft leather gloves and boots. Across your chest is bandolier with pockets that you somehow know are filled with various picks, tension wrenches, small files, and other tools for making entry into places you should not be…
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You take a slow step back, lifting your hands in a show of surrender. Fighting is pointless, as is running, you can see that clearly. This man is stronger, faster, trained in ways you are not. But brute strength isn't the only weapon in the world. Your mind races, grasping for anything that might shift the balance in your favor. If you are truly a princess in this world, then you still have power. If not in steel, then in words. "I see," you say, schooling your features into something composed, something regal. "House Valoryn has fallen." You say it as if the words don’t hollow out your chest. "And what now? Do you mean to kill me?" The knight pauses, his sneer …
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The knight is on you before you can move. His hands are tugging at your skirts, exposing your calves, your thighs, your undergarments. He lets out a grunt of approval as he sees your bare inner thigh, and slides his hand up between your legs, groping you roughly. His grin is feral, predatory. His hand closes on your most private parts and he nearly lifts you up off the floor as he gropes you. A jolt of fear runs through you. His hand comes away from your legs, your skirts bunched up uncomfortably between your legs, and he leers over you, pulling you up roughly. You only make it as far as one knee before his hand is fisted in your hair and he holds you there, shoving…
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Your breath shudders as you stare up at him, your pulse hammering against the place where his thumb lingers at your throat. Every instinct tells you to resist, to fight, to never kneel, but instinct won't save you now. Defiance is death. Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, but you force yourself to still them. You force yourself to breathe. The weight of his words settles over you, thick and suffocating. The world you knew is gone, your father, your home, your people, all burning in the wake of this conquest. If you fall here, there will be nothing left. No one to remember House Valoryn. But if you live, if you survive no matter the cost, then maybe, just may…
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Your hands tremble, but it isn't fear that makes them shake, it's rage. This man, this invader, this butcher, thinks he can stand here, in the ruins of your home, over the blood of your father, and offer you life in chains? That he can strip you of everything and expect you to kneel at his feet like some grateful pet? Your lip curls in disgust. Over my dead body, you think to yourself, and you spit in his face. The glob of saliva lands just below his eye, sliding down his cheek. The moment it happens, the entire world stills. The air between you is electric, humming with the weight of your defiance. The knight doesn't move, doesn't speak. He just slowly wipes his che…
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You nod slowly, reluctantly, but you nod your agreement. You wish you were stronger, wish you could resist him, but you know that this will end the same whether or not you fight. The only difference is that if you fight, you'll have more bruises, possibly cuts... you might even be killed. Your body is what he wants. You can give him that much for your survival. It's not like anyone will know. His grin grows even darker as you nod your acquiescence. "Good girl," he says, his fingers still curled in your hair. With his other hand, he strokes your cheek slowly, almost as if he were stroking a favored pet. "Good girl," he says again. This time you feel the sham…
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A shudder runs through you as the creatures freeze, their gaping maws snapping shut in eerie unison. The vibrating hum of their voices ceases all at once, leaving behind an unnatural, suffocating silence. The air thickens, pressing against you like a damp, living shroud. Then, from behind you, a voice speaks. "Mmm... dinner time." The words are slow, drawn out, each syllable reverberating through your very bones. The voice is deep, wet, and hungry, a voice that does not simply belong to something monstrous but to something beyond. The kind of thing that doesn't just consume flesh, it devours souls. You don't turn. You can't. Your breath is caught in yo…
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Your breath is unsteady, your mind racing. You are beaten. The weight of your father's death, your kingdom's fall, and the cold steel of the knight's grip around your wrist remind you of that with every thudding heartbeat. But submission is not your only option. You lift your chin, just slightly, enough to show him you are still a Valoryn. Enough to make him hesitate, even if only for a second. "I won't beg," you say, your voice quieter than you intend, but steady. "And I won't pretend I have the power to fight you." His smirk remains, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in his sharp eyes. He waits, letting you speak. "But killing me would be a waste," …
Last reply by IsabellaRose , -
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"I will not." You stare up at him, grim defiance on your face and venom in your words. You try to swing at him, but he catches your wrist in his hand. His eyes are filled with fury. The blow lands before you realize he swung. There is a ringing in your ears and you taste blood in your mouth. You are dizzy, barely able to hold yourself in the kneeling position, and not completely aware of what's happening as you hear the sound of fabric shredding. You body is tugged roughly, your position shifted about, and when you are released, you fall back onto your bare bottom on the cold, stone floor. You are naked sprawled on your backside on the floor of the castle. …
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The receptionist’s polite smile never falters as she taps a manicured finger against something on the desk, her gaze flicking over you with clinical precision, as if measuring your worth before she’s even spoken a word. "You're the last audition," she says, her voice smooth, devoid of any real warmth. She tilts her head slightly, studying you in a way that makes your skin itch. "Please come in, Miss Hastings." Miss Hastings? The name sits uneasily in your mind, unfamiliar yet somehow expected. Like an old coat slipped over your shoulders without you realizing it. But you don’t correct her. You don’t ask who she thinks you are. You just stand, feeling the weight …
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Your fingers move before your mind catches up, plucking a knife from the sheath at your thigh in one fluid motion. The weight of it feels natural in your grip, the cool steel an extension of your hand. You don't have time to question how you know what to do, you just act. With a practiced flick of your wrist, the blade sails through the air, spinning end over end toward its target. The guard barely has time to react. His eyes widen, and he instinctively jerks his head to the side. The knife doesn't miss, but it doesn't kill. A sickening thunk echoes in the chamber as the blade buries itself deep into the flesh of his shoulder, just beside the plate of his a…
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"If your king is wise," you say, voice measured, even, "he will see the advantage in this." You hold your ground, even as he steps closer, his shadow falling over you like a noose tightening. The weight of his presence is oppressive, but you do not falter. You have his attention, and that is power. His fingers graze the hilt of his dagger, but you refuse to acknowledge the threat. You will not show fear. "You have already won the battle," you continue, keeping your voice steady, authoritative, the way your father once spoke in court. "But if you kill me, the war is far from over." The knight raises a brow, intrigued but skeptical. "Is that so?" "You kn…
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You make your choice in an instant and dart into the second room, making immediately for the hidden passage. Your feet barely skim the stone as you pivot sharply, lunging through the open doorway to your left. The room is a wreck, its once-grand furniture smashed to splinters, books and papers scattered across the floor. Dust swirls in the air, disturbed by your frantic movements. Behind you, the knight’s boots thunder down the stairs. "Now, now, Princess. I see you!" Your hands fly to the bookshelf, trailing along the carved wood until... there. Your fingers find the notch, pressing inward with all your strength. Click. The shelf groans open, revealin…
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You nod slowly, reluctantly, but you nod your agreement. You wish you were stronger, wish you could resist him, but you know that this will end the same whether or not you fight. The only difference is that if you fight, you'll have more bruises, possibly cuts... you might even be killed. Your body is what he wants. You can give him that much for your survival, or least pretend to until you can find a way to escape. His grin grows even darker as you nod your acquiescence. "Good girl," he says, his fingers still curled in your hair. With his other hand, he strokes your cheek slowly, almost as if he were stroking a favored pet. "Good girl," he says again. Th…
Last reply by IsabellaRose , -
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The woman before you is no leashling, no trembling wench waiting for the collar. She stands with her blade low but ready, her stance solid, balanced. She knows how to fight. Her armor is cobbled together from scavenged sports gear, reinforced leather, and rusted plating, but it’s more than just protection. It tells a story. She's survived, she's killed, and she’s not afraid of you. "Looks like you've lost another leashling, Meatdog," she taunts, her lips curling into a smirk. mocking you. You sneer, your grip tightening on the hilt of your machete. The blade is old, its jagged edge nicked and dark with dried blood, but it has never failed you before. Your finger…
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