IsabellaRose

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.

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.

Not guilty. My job is boringly local. The next person has a hairdresser they can't live without.

Oh, very guilty, Multiple ideas. Even two movie scripts mostly written. And a comic book. and more books than I can count. The next person is too scared of rejection to follow a dream.

Not guilty. I don't want anything to do with celebrity. Quiet, unknown, and under the radar is my flavor. The next person would love to be in the limelight.

I might have been a tad underage to be out dancing in the 80s, but I danced alone in my bedroom like only a pre-teen can to many 80's dance songs, so... sort guilty-ish? The next person has got a little too carried away on a dance floor. (I'll leave what that means to your interpretation)

Not guilty. I dated a lifeguard... does that count for anything? The next person has studied a martial art.

Sleep is for wusses! <rolls over and goes back to sleep>

@Reasoned and everyone else... the new challenge is posted!

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

The room was small, soft-lit, and smelled faintly of sandalwood and expensive soap. A bottle of water sat unopened on the nightstand, beads of condensation dripping slowly down its sides. The bed was large, the sheets cream-colored and crisp, folded into a triangle at the corner like this was just any hotel. But it wasn’t. This wasn’t any night, and this wasn’t just any room. Ava crossed one long leg over the other and smoothed her dress, a slinky, low-cut black number she couldn’t afford when she bought it. But tonight felt like the right night to risk looking worth the trouble. Her heels dangled off one toe and she flipped then back up rhythmically, like the last few ticks of a countdown clock. Every sound in the hallway made her tense and still. Room Twelve. That’s what the envelope had said. She didn’t know who would come through that door... and that was the point. They’d taken her preference sheet earlier with all the care of a luxury concierge, checking boxes, noting her limits, offering reassurance without promises. “You’ll be matched based on compatibility, mutual attraction, and safety,” the woman behind the desk had said. “You won’t have to do anything you didn’t consent to in writing.” But they hadn’t told her if it would be a man or a woman who would come through that door. Heck, given what she'd checked on that form, it could be a couple. She hadn’t asked. Now she sat in silence and let the uncertainty crawl under her skin like silk. She was used to attention... on the bus, at castings, in elevators where men leaned too close. Ava was beautiful in a way that was nearly inconvenient, with high cheekbones, almond eyes, and lips full enough to draw stares even when she didn’t smile. Her long, toned legs, carved from years of dance and yoga, were her secret weapon at castings. And yet, here she was, dressed up in an expensive dress she would slip off for a complete stranger, wondering if this was empowerment… or desperation. She’d spent her days lately answering phones for lawyers who forgot her name and smiling at casting agents who called her “honey” and said, “maybe next time.” Her inbox was full of "we’ll keep your headshot on file," her fridge was full of takeout, and her bed was empty and as cold as the fridge. This wasn’t just about sex, not really... it was about being wanted, touched, chosen. But now that she was here, alone, waiting… her chest fluttered. What if no one came? Or worse... what if someone did, and she couldn’t go through with it? What if they weren’t kind? What if they were too kind, and she liked it more than she was ready for? Ava glanced at the door. The number on her key card was twelve. The room number matched. Any moment now. She closed her eyes, let her fingers drift slowly up her bare thigh, and tried to steady her breath. Would it be a man with calloused hands and a patient voice? A woman with perfume and sharp nails and knowing eyes? A couple who wanted to share something dangerous and beautiful with her? She didn’t know, couldn't know, not until... There was the click of the key card door lock releasing, and the door handle turned...

The wind spoke in whistles over the glass plains, dragging long silver reeds into gentle bows as it passed. Light shimmered across the crystalline surface of the land. Shards of ancient seabeds, smooth as melted quartz, stretched for miles until they vanished beneath the bruised horizon. Here, nothing grew tall. The sky reigned absolute, wide and endless, painted with the slow swirl of dusk and the distant glow of floating cities that hovered like faded memories above the rim of the world. This was the province of Isareth, one of the last places untouched by the war of the Ascendancy. The sky-ships did not come here, nor the marching engines. There were no longer any spires. Just wind, and light, and silence... and Elenya. She stood alone in the doorway of her tower, carved from the obsidian ribstone of Vareth-Kai, the last of the dread leviathans who once roamed these lands. It was said their breath could melt stone and that their carcasses created the mountain ranges. Now all that was left of them were rows of obsidian ribstones, and this one was the furthest north. It had stood for centuries, the end of a row of towers long razed by the marching engines. This one was all that remained, and it was now half-swallowed by flowering vines that shimmered pale blue in the night. It was a forgotten place, a sanctuary by name, but a prison by function. Once, she had been spoken of in court poetry. Elenya of the Starlit Veil, who turned eyes with a glance and made ministers falter with a smile. Her beauty hadn’t left her... her skin still caught the glow of lantern-flame like moonlight, her dark hair was luminous in the glow, braided with leather thongs and pieces of silver. But time had stilled her, and the tower had quieted her. Now, she spent her evenings watching the empty plains, breathing the hush of forgotten wind. She had been sent here to watch the skies for enemy movement. The tower was the last listening post, its mirrors tuned to reflect the signals of Ascendant fire. But the war had passed over her, around her, or perhaps beneath her. She had received no replies for many months, no visitors for much longer. No one came now... not enemies, not friends, not even messengers. And gods, how she missed touch. More than words, more than diplomacy, more than the brittle ceremonies of power for which she once lived. She missed skin, breath, heat... the feeling of someone close enough to steal warmth from, close enough to forget the ache between her legs or the silence in her bed. She could conjure fire from the sky and command light from darkness, but not flesh, not the press of another body against hers, the weight of arms that meant it, the hungry curve of a mouth that wasn’t made of memory. Her fingers curled into the folds of her robe. She was tired. But just now, there had been a sound... a crack of stone, a rush of air. The mirrors had begun to hum, as if something had stepped into their path, but there had been nothing. She looked again now, past the silver reeds, peering into the dusk. Someone was coming.

Give her her own plug and gently play with that, hoping to start a plug daisy chain

Guilty. Several, actually. I blame my brother for most of them - the whole original Star Wars trilogy (IV, V, & VI), Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Big Trouble in Little China, and Gremlins are all his fault. My dad's weird obsession with watching his list of "holiday" movies every year, sometimes two or three times a year, added National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, The Polar Express, The Nightmare Before Christmas, and Die Hard to that list... there might be others that are close to 20 viewings, but those ones are definitely 20+ viewing movies. The ones I think I added on my own were: The Princess Bride, Beauty and the Beast, Coraline, Kung Pow: Enter the Fist, Spirited Away, The Wizard of Oz, and Scott Pilgrim vs. the World. If partials count, I've watched the opening 10-15 min of Up more times than I can count... it's the sweetest, most heartbreaking love story backstory intro to a movie ever. Also, the opening sequence up to the credits of Raising Arizona, because it's the zaniest, wackiest backstory intro to a movie ever. I'm working on adding the recent Spiderverse movies to that list. Maybe I watch a few movies too many times? The next person thinks I need to get out more. But seriously, the next person has a favorite book that they've read more than 3x.

Grab a slice of pizza, have a seat, and watch the chaos.

nightly ritual

Not guilty... but it takes a LONG time for them to regain my trust. I'm forgiving to a fault, and trusting beyond any sane limit. But once that trust is broken... yeah. It's not impossible, but it's very hard. The next person has broken a promise and despite apologizing (and maybe even being forgiven) still feels horrible about it.

bad touch

Guilty. I've always been a Maker's Mark girl since my ex got me into it, but recently switched to Knob Creek as my bourbon of choice. But let me tell you about this Michters 20 that I got to try at a dinner a few weeks back... I was going to buy some until I saw the price tag. Holy shit. Even the 10 is stupidly expensive, but the 20? Good lord. I guess there are benefits to being forced to try to get donations from rich people after all. The next person has no idea what I was rambling about in that answer.

Evelyn took the woman's cock back into her mouth, cleaning every last drop of cum from the thick shaft and sensitive head. As the woman stepped away, Evelyn waited, her body trembling with anticipation, her mind a whirl of nervous energy and excitement, eager to see what the woman would do next, her legs still spread wide, her body on full display, her pussy wet and ready, unable to do anything but lay there.

Evelyn's eyes widened in a mix of curiosity and trepidation as she processed the woman's words. Wax? she thought, her mind racing. Does she mean hot wax? She looked up at the woman, her body trembling slightly. She could feel the woman's cum oozing down her cheek, down the curve of her breast. Whatever she wants, Evelyn thought. I'll do it. I want to please her. I want to feel everything she has to offer. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come, her body alive with anticipation, her mind a whirl of nervous energy and excitement.

missing pants!

I'm going to say "not guilty" even though I once could... the same injury that prevents me from long distance running will keep me from ever trying that again. The next person loves being in or on the water, swimming, tubing, boating, fishing, surfing... whatever...

Evelyn's face was flushed and marked with the woman's cum, her eyes glazed over with a mix of pleasure and exhaustion. She looked up at the woman, her mouth still eager and ready, her body trembling with anticipation, waiting for further instructions, her large breasts heaving with each desperate breath, one hard nipple still clamped, sending jolts of sensation through her body. "Thank you, Mistress," she said. "I hope you like the way I look."

Evelyn gulped down the first spurt of the woman's load, her throat constricting as she swallowed, her eyes watering as the subsequent spurts coated her face and tits, marking her as a used, dirty slut. She panted heavily, her chest heaving, her body trembling with a mix of pleasure, submission, and exhaustion, her mind a whirl of satisfaction and humiliation.