IsabellaRose

Guilty. I have volunteered at the soup kitchen/homeless shelter, and I have regularly scheduled volunteer hours at a local women's shelter. The next person has had to bail someone out.

Guilty. I'm one of those people that gets a really good feeling from helping others. Plus, I think it helps balance out your personal scales - everyone has done some crappy stuff in their life. Helping others sort of evens out your karmic debt. The next person volunteers their time for a specific charity.

shaved balls

Not guilty. I'm actually doing pretty good emotionally. The next person wants to stimulate someone's... emotions.

sensitive tits

You hold your ground, despite the heavy weight of his gaze, the way his fingers still hover near his dagger. The tension in the air is suffocating, but you don’t back down, you push forward. "If you kill me," you say, voice low, steady, "you will doom your king." The knight lets out a short, amused exhale, but there’s an edge of uncertainty behind it. "Is that so?" You take a slow breath, keeping your expression composed, your lie already forming. You have to sell this. "My father knew this war was coming," you say, inventing history as you go, layering truth with deception. "Before your army ever reached our gates, before the first sword was drawn, he prepared for the worst." The knight’s amusement fades slightly. He’s listening. "He sent envoys to our allies, men sworn to avenge his death. If I die, if House Valoryn falls completely, there will be no peace for your king." You let your voice drop to something cold, something threatening. "Armies will rise from the western shores, from the eastern highlands. They will not stop until Edrington burns." He shifts slightly, weight adjusting, uncertain now, calculating. Good. You keep pushing. "My father’s men wait for word. If I live, if I am spared, they will not march. But if I die?" You let the words linger, your tone sharpening. "Then it will not be your king’s rule that expands, but his war. It will become one he cannot win." The knight’s jaw tightens. You can see it, the flicker of doubt, the thought running through his mind, what if this is true? What if killing me invites disaster? But then, his expression shifts, his smirk returning, sharper, knowing, turning into something colder, crueler. His eyes flick over you with a predator’s amusement, and you feel the first true prickle of fear crawling up your spine. "That’s quite a story, Princess," he murmurs, his voice almost gentle. Mocking. "But you see…" He takes a step forward, closing the distance between you in an instant. "I don’t recall hearing anything about an alliance army marching to save you." Your throat tightens. Too late to take it back. His smirk widens as your silence stretches just a fraction too long. "And if your father truly had such loyal men, such powerful friends…" His voice lowers, becoming almost a purr. "Why did they let your house fall?" You grasp for another answer, another way out, but his hand snaps forward, grabbing your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his. His grip is firm, bruising. "You're lying." Your breath catches, your body going still, but his smirk only deepens. "Thought I wouldn’t notice?" His thumb drags slowly along your jawline before he releases you, only to heft his sword instead. The gleaming blade catches the dim torchlight as he looks at you, considering. "You just made a mistake, Princess," he muses, tapping the flat of the blade against his gauntlet. "See, now I know you’ll say anything to save yourself. Which means I don’t have to believe a word you say." Your stomach twists. You have seconds to decide how to salvage this. If you drop the act completely, beg, plead, throw yourself at his mercy, click here <link forthcoming> If you try to draw a half-truth from your lie, insist the army isn’t marching yet, but that they’re waiting for your command, click here <link forthcoming> If you shift tactics entirely, grab the dagger at his belt, go for his throat, and hope you can end this before he does, click here <link forthcoming>

fondling balls

Not guilty, but not in years. The next person has never been to a strip club.

Nice! We should build a world together sometime! I haven't engaged in worldbuilding for fun in a while.

Not guilty. The next person believes that a zoo is just a pet store that doesn't sell anything.

worshipping cock

"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 know it is," you press. "There will be rebellion, resistance, blood spilled for years. The nobles loyal to my house will never kneel. They will hide, regroup, strike from the shadows. Your armies will be bled dry fighting ghosts that refuse to surrender." You step forward, just slightly, challenging him with your words. "But if I live—if I stand beside your king—those same nobles will have no choice but to accept him as their sovereign." His jaw tightens, and you see the conflict in his eyes. He knows you’re right. "A bloodless victory," you say softly, driving the point home. "An empire won not through slaughter, but unity. That is what your king truly wants, isn’t it? To rule, not simply destroy." Silence stretches between you, thick as smoke. Then, he exhales, lips pressing into something thoughtful, reluctant. He hates that you have a point, but he doesn’t deny it. Instead, he tilts his head, studying you as though he’s never truly seen you before. The look is unnerving, as though he’s trying to strip you bare with his gaze alone. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower, softer, but no less dangerous. "If I take you to my king, what assurance do I have that you will play your part?" His smirk returns, colder now, calculated. "What stops you from driving a dagger into his heart the moment you are close enough?" His fingers still hover near his own dagger, waiting. Your next words could seal your fate. If you tell him he can search you to make sure you have no weapon, click here. If you tell him you will swear fealty to his king, click here <link forthcoming> If you offer a different bargain, one that makes you valuable not just as a political tool, but as something more… personal, click here <link forthcoming>

I love a well-developed world! I really loved Golarion from Pathfinder when I started playing. It seemed better than the Sword Coast, without all the... I don't know... D&D-ness of Sword Coast? But lately I've been playing in worlds created specifically for the game I'm running. I've really got into collaborative world-building and the "yes, and" improv philosophy. It's great because you can add in things you like from your favorite settings and turn those individual parts into something entirely new. Like the Wolfen Empire and their conflict with humanity from Palladium Fantasy and the Kelesh Empire and their culture of slavery from Golarion? Use 'em both. Rename them if you want, add new elements, knightly orders from favorite books, whatever... I've always been a home-brewed setting person, but making them collaborative is my favorite. I could go on and on about the world I created with input from all the players in my last Pathfinder campaign. But I won't bore you with the details.

What makes it stand out over other Fantasy settings?

Your fingers fly to the strap on your thigh, finding the familiar smooth hilt of another throwing knife. You can’t let him close the distance, not when he’s bigger, stronger, and armored. Not when you’re already breathing too hard, your heart slamming against your ribs like a caged animal. You yank the blade free, steadying your grip even as you backpedal, trying to gain ground. The knight snarls, his bloodied shoulder heaving, but his pace doesn’t slow. He’s fast, but you’re faster. You snap your wrist, sending another blade spinning through the air. This time, he’s ready. His gauntleted hand jerks up, and the knife glances off the steel, clattering uselessly to the stone floor. His smirk returns, though pained. "You'll have to do better than that, thief." You don’t hesitate. Another knife is already in your grip, your fingers slick with sweat as you whip it toward his legs, his knees, anything unarmored, anything vulnerable. The blade bites deep into the gap beneath his greaves, and the knight stumbles, his leg buckling beneath him. Yes! You use the moment to run, dodging behind an overturned chair, your boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. Your lungs burn, but you force yourself deeper into the chamber, weaving through the wreckage of battle. He grunts in pain behind you, but he’s not down. You hear the scrape of steel against stone as he yanks the blade free, his movements slower now, his breath coming harsher. You risk a glance back. He’s limping, but still coming. You’re running out of knives. If you move into the darker part of the room and duck behind cover, waiting for him to pass to strike from behind, click here <link forthcoming> If you push forward, using your speed and agility to try to find an escape route, click here <link forthcoming> If you decide enough is enough and turn to face him with your twin daggers, click here <link forthcoming>

sucking dick

Your breath hitches, your pulse hammering in your ears. The weight of the bit of chain hanging from your collar is suddenly unbearable, as if it’s tightening, pulling you back into the hands of the monster this man before you works for. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to still your trembling fingers as you drop them from the chain. You can’t fight him. He’s too big, too strong, and you don’t even know how many more are lurking in the ruins, waiting to drag you back in irons. If you resist, he’ll enjoy breaking you. But if you play along, if you act weak, you might get close enough to strike when he least expects it. So you let your shoulders slump, let your gaze drop to the ground, your breath coming in shallow, uncertain gasps. You press your lips together like you’re struggling to find words, like you’re afraid to speak. Like you are prey. The smirk on his face grows. He believes it. "That's right," he murmurs, closing the distance. His filthy hand grabs your chin, tilting your face up roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. His fingers press into your skin, his grip meant to remind you of his strength, his control. You let out a small, shaky breath, pretending to shrink beneath his touch. Let him think he’s already won. "Good girl," he drawls, amusement thick in his tone. "It would be a shame to leave permanent scars on such a pretty thing." His thumb drags over your bottom lip, slow and deliberate. Your stomach roils with disgust, but you keep yourself still, pliant. You need him closer. His grip loosens just slightly, shifting lower, grazing your throat. There. Your chance is coming. If you take the risk now, go for his eyes, his throat, make a break for it before the others decide to step in, click here <link forthcoming> If you wait a moment longer, let him drop his guard further, draw him in until you can strike cleanly, click here <link forthcoming> If you know better than to fight and give in, click here <link forthcoming>

Your grip tightens on the cool metal of the doorknob. The voice from the other side of the door is smooth, controlled, confident, a man used to getting what he wants. A man who expects you to comply. That expectation hangs in the air between you like a challenge. You push the door open and step inside. The room is dimly lit, bathed in the golden glow of a single lamp perched on the edge of a sleek black desk. Floor-to-ceiling curtains smother any outside light, sealing the space in an unnatural hush. The scent of cologne, leather, and whiskey lingers in the air. It feels intentional, designed. At the far end of the room, he sits. The director. An older man, still handsome, in a tailored black suit, his silver cufflinks catching the lamplight as he idly taps his fingers against the arm of his chair. His eyes, sharp and heavy-lidded, drag over you, slow and deliberate. You feel him undressing you in his mind. He doesn’t speak right away, simply watches, letting the silence stretch long enough to make most people uncomfortable. But you aren’t most people. You play the part. Your lips curl into the faintest smile, a flirty look of possibility, your posture shifting just enough to suggest confidence, intrigue. You don’t shrink away from his gaze; instead, you let him look. Let him think you are exactly what he wants you to be. "Miss Hastings," he finally murmurs, his voice rich with amusement. "I've heard you're quite... talented." He gestures toward the chair across from him, a slow flick of his fingers, watching to see if you’ll obey. You hesitate just long enough to make it feel like a choice, then step forward, sinking into the chair with the kind of practiced ease that says you belong here. The leather is cold against the bare skin of your thighs. The director’s smirk widens, but his gaze sharpens. He knows you aren’t naïve. He knows you’re playing along. The question in both your minds is: how far are you willing to go? He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. "Tell me, Miss Hastings… how badly do you want this role?" His eyes glint with something unreadable as he waits for your reply. If you reply in a flirty manner, keeping the act going, to see where this leads, click here <link forthcoming> If you try to turn the tables, ask what he’s willing to do to prove this is worth your time, click here <link forthcoming> If you decide to set a boundary, make it clear that you’ll play along only to a point, click here <link forthcoming>

Your grip tightens on the cool metal of the doorknob. The words from the other side of the door are smooth as silk but threaded with darker expectations. You breathe in. Steady yourself. You are an actress, not a toy, not a decoration, not prey. You push the door open and step inside, your heels clicking against the polished wood floor. The room beyond is dimly lit, the glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across plush leather furniture and a sleek, black desk. Floor-to-ceiling curtains are drawn over what you assume are windows, their heavy fabric muffling the sounds of the city beyond. The air is thick with cologne and the faint bite of whiskey. At the far end of the room sits a man you assume must be the director. He is a man of presence, handsome for an older man, his suit sharp, his silver cufflinks glinting in the low light. His gaze drags over you, slow, assessing, and you fight the urge to shiver. His eyes have undressed you before you even have a chance to move, and he leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, a smirk playing at his lips as if he already knows the outcome of this conversation. You don’t let him speak first. “I hope you’re looking for talent,” you say, your voice even, strong, “because that’s what I’m offering.” His smirk widens, as though he expected resistance but doesn’t find it discouraging. "Talent," he repeats, tasting the word like it's a foreign concept. "Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?" He gestures to the chair across from him, a lazy flick of his fingers. "Please, have a seat. Let's talk about the role." His gaze is fixed on you, waiting. If you sit, shake off your fears and assumptions, decide you're both professionals, and approach this like any other audition, click here. <link forthcoming> If you sit, stare him down defiantly, make it clear that you won’t be intimidated, click here. <link forthcoming> If you remain standing, force him to make his intentions known first, ready to leave if he says the wrong thing, click here. <link forthcoming>

eating fish

Hey everyone, sorry I've been so lax in getting polls and new challenges posted! The poll is now up for Challenge 37! also, I had a weird idea for the next challenge and I'm not sure if it would appeal to anyone... I was going to say "write a new path in my choose your own adventure story" - pick any point in the story and create your own "if you do this, click here" type entry and write it up!" I'll link all entries in the main choose your own adventure thread and let people click through to them as part of the story. Winners still get credits like normal challenges. What does anyone think about that? Good idea? Bad idea? Too much reading required? Not giving people enough originality?

kissing booth

Here's the map of options so far... The sky blue box in the middle is the start with story options branching out to both left and right from the center.

"Hop hop, little bunny," says a voice that is both a rasping whisper and an eager chitter all at once. You jump, and feel your ears stand straight up twitching at the sound of the voice, panic gripping your heart. Your body is frozen in place, your bare feet pressed against the damp, moss-covered floor of the ruined office, your heart pounding in your chest. The scent of mildew and metal fills your nose, but you can smell the creature as well; something about him is somehow familiar. It reminds you of home, the burrow, your family. Then you see it. A shape slinks forward from the shadows, low to the ground, moving with an unsettling grace, half-lurking, half-stalking. A creature, not an animal, nor a person. Its frame is hunched, covered in mottled fur, streaked with grime. Its hands, long-fingered and clawed, grip the remnants of a rusted railing as it pulls itself into the light. Its large eyes reflect the dim glow from the broken ceiling panels and lock onto yours with an eerie intensity. You don't know this creature, but it smells of familiar scents, and it knows what you are. "They eat you all up if they find you." The creature seems harmless. Your muscles tense. Who? Who is looking for you? You don’t even know where you are, how you got here... you don't even know who you are. You look down at your own body for the first time. Your hands are somewhere between human hands and paws, covered in short, soft, white fur. A patch of white fur runs down your chest between your ample breasts, which are barely covered by a swath of black cloth stretched tight over them and tied at your back. Your tiny bikini bottom match the top, and your long legs end in feet made for hopping. You turn to look behind you and see your cute, tiny tail. Reaching up, you touch your long, bunny ears. You're some kind of rabbit human hybrid. Have you always been this way? Somehow you can't remember. But the creature beckons to you, drawing you out of your reverie. "Come. Come!" The creature gestures with one clawed hand toward an opening in the wall, a dark hole where that may have once been a ventilation shaft, the cover long since gone. "Burrowkin hide you. Protect you. Quickly!" It scuttles closer, pressing itself low to the ground, its strange, patchwork fur bristling. Not threatening. Urgent. Something inside you believes this creature. You know that whatever hunts in these ruins will not stop until they find you. The air around you feels tight, like the ruins themselves are holding their breath. You can hear something in the distance. Footsteps, heavy and clumsy compared to your soft rabbit feet. You hear the sound of metal scraping against metal and voices like distant snarls carried on the wind. The tunnel yawns open, waiting. You don’t know this creature. You don’t know if you can trust it. But the alternative might be worse. If you decide you can't trust this creature and turn to run, trying to escape into the city ruins, risking whatever lurks beyond, click here. <link forthcoming> If you turn to fight whatever draws near, despite the fact that you are clearly prey and have naught to fight with but tiny claws and speed, click here. <link forthcoming> If you follow the Burrowkin into the dark tunnel, into the unknown, click here. <link forthcoming>

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 fingers twitch. She’s fast, but you’re bigger, stronger. You could end her, crush her skull against the ruins like you’ve done to dozens before. "Tell your Boneking if he comes looking, all he'll find is death." She’s bold, tossing threats at the name of the only man that matters. The Boneking’s rule stretches far and wide, his hunger unending. He takes what he wants, and she thinks she can stop him? You roll your shoulders, baring your teeth. She’s baiting you, trying to get you to strike first. Trying to throw you off. But you’re no fool. You know your size and power is your strength in this contest. She’s smaller. She bleeds just like the rest. "Return her, and I'll let you go," you say, your voice steady. "If you think you can take me," she says with swagger to match any man in your crew, "come get some." The air between you tightens, a moment stretched thin with tension. If you rush her, let the blade of your machete do the talking, click here. <link forthcoming> If you rush her, try to snap one of the iron collars hanging from your belt around her neck, claim her, then break her at your leisure, click here. <link forthcoming> If you circle her, force her back, make her talk. Find out where she's taken the leashling you hunt, click here. <link forthcoming> If you fall back, let her think she’s driven you off, and then follow her and find where she's taken the leashling, click here. <link forthcoming>