IsabellaRose

Guilty. It worked for a while, even. The next person is either in a relationship they want out of, or isn't in a relationship they want to be in.

blue balls

Guilty. In like 10 minutes. The next person will get to kiss someone they love today.

Is it the same thing I say every year on my birthday?

Nope. It would have to go back to pre-2016 for me to bother, and I'd have to be able to change things. Push the button and you instantly become 10 years younger.

Not guilty. It hasn't been a good few days, but nowhere near what I'd call "really bad"... but I guess that's subjective. The next person would love a hug right now.

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 you with your hair until you're kneeling before him, his musky cock already out right in front of your face. He holds you in place by a handful of hair. Your breathing is quick and shallow. Fear is about to overcome you, but you fight it off defiantly. He looks at you and his obvious desire wars with his disdain for your people, a battle of expressions across his face. His cock, semi-hard already, throbs with his excitement. Finally he speaks. "On your knees before a man, right where you belong." His voice is filled with confidence, arrogance even. "Last chance, Princess. Cooperate and I won't hurt you. Keep fighting, and you bleed." His cock throbs to full attention, long and hard and aimed directly at you. It's almost hitting you in the face. You can smell his sweat and musk. "Now, show me your tits," he says, and tugs your head by the hair as if for emphasis, "before you taste my cock." If you comply and show him your breasts, knowing he's going to feed you his cock next, click here. If you continue to resist, click here.

Not guilty, but I often wish I was. I think I've quit halfway or less through maybe a dozen shows total. I'm a completionist. If I make it past the first 3 episodes, I'll probably watch all of it, even if it's painful. The next person wants to gush about their favorite tv show right now (and will in their response!)

Not guilty. Same stylist, same cut, same dye job. I like my current look. The next person wants something right now that they should really not be thinking about.

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 cheek with the back of his gauntlet, his fingers flexing once as he does. Then he exhales, a quiet, measured breath. "Ah," he says, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful. His head tilts ever so slightly, his smirk sharpening into something colder. Meaner. "You've got a spine after all, Princess." His hand flashes before you can react. Pain explodes across your cheek. You hit the ground, the stone biting into your palms, the taste of blood in your mouth, your head ringing from the force of his strike. Your vision swims, but you can hear him, boots against stone, the shift of armor as he crouches beside you. "I'll let you in on a little secret," he says, his tone still infuriatingly amused. "I like a little fight." His fingers tangle into your hair, jerking your head back just enough to force you to meet his eyes. They are gleaming with cruel amusement, and a darker hunger. "You want to die proud? You want to make this hard?" He leans in, his breath hot against your skin. "I'll give you that death, but not before I break you. I like breaking things that think they can't be broken." The grip in your hair tightens and he slams your head downward against the stone floor. Sparks appear in your vision as everything else dims. You are dizzy and unable to get to your feet. Your hands slide ineffectually against the cold stone. He straightens, rolling his shoulders, considering you like one might a beast to be tamed, or put down. "This could have been so much easier for you, Princess." His is lazy and sharp. "But now I'll have you. I'll have you right here, right now." You scrabble back across the floor as he begins to remove his armor, but you collapse as your arms give out. You reach up to wipe the blood from your mouth. You want to scream at him, to snarl and tear at him with your teeth and nails, but he is upon you too fast. Continue.

illicit affair

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," you continue, forcing steel into your words. "And forcing me into servitude?" You shake your head slightly. "You can take my body, but you can't take my loyalty. I would be a prisoner, not an ally. A caged wolf waiting for the moment to sink my teeth into your throat." That makes him laugh, a low, amused sound, and his fingers ease their grip, just slightly. "And what, Princess, do you think you have to bargain with?" You breathe, gathering the last shreds of your strength. You don’t have an army. You don't have soldiers loyal to your house waiting in the shadows. But you have your name. You have knowledge, of the kingdom, of its allies, of its enemies. "I can give your king more than my submission," you say, watching his expression carefully. "You need me. Not as a servant, not as a prize, but as a key. You can take the castle, but you won't hold it for long. You need the noble houses to bend the knee, the people to accept your king." You tilt your head slightly, testing him, pushing the moment just far enough. "And who better to make that happen than the last surviving heir of House Valoryn?" His smirk fades, replaced by something more calculating. You can see the gears turning behind his cold gaze. He doesn’t dismiss you outright. He doesn’t laugh this off. He's considering it, and that means you still have power. Finally, he exhales, tilting his head. "An interesting offer," he muses. "But tell me, Princess, why should I trust you? A wolf, as you said, waits for its chance to bite. If I let you live, if I let you move freely, what assurance do I have that you won't turn on me the first chance you get? Why not just force you to submit to my king, or better yet, take you now, breed you myself?" His grip doesn't loosen. His gaze is locked on yours, sharp and waiting. Measuring you. If you press your advantage and try to convince him you are more valuable as an ally than a captive, click here. If you feign obedience, let him believe you are pliant, let him think he is in control, and try to find a moment you strike, click here. If you play to his desire for you, give him your body so you can survive to escape later, click here. If you give up and give in to him, knowing you cannot overpower him and your arguments are weak, click here. <link forthcoming>

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 maybe, you'll have a chance to take something back. The thought is a whisper in your mind, dangerous and tempting. Slowly, you lower your gaze. You drop to one knee. "I surrender," you say, forcing the words past the bitterness in your throat. They taste like ash. Like betrayal. The knight exhales a pleased chuckle. His hand moves, fingers trailing through your hair as if you were already some tame little thing, his to command. It takes everything in you not to flinch away. "A wise choice, Princess." His voice is rich with satisfaction, dark with promise. "You'll find that service to our king has its rewards. And serving me?" His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his. His smirk is sharp, predatory. Owning. "That has its own... privileges. Perhaps you'd like to start that service now." Your stomach knots, but you hold his gaze as he tugs you close, your cheek pressing against the front of his armor, toward his crotch. He's testing you. Seeing how far you’ll bend, if you'll break. If you decide you have no choice and give in to him wholeheartedly, becoming his slave, click here <link forthcoming> If you play along for now and see where this road leads, click here. If you play along and act like an obedient captive, offering yourself to him but hoping for a chance to escape, click here. If you try to use flowery words to talk your way out of whatever he's suggesting, click here. <link forthcoming>

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 instinctively reach up to touch your own neck. You are wearing a thick metal collar much like those at his belt. You touch the ring attached to the front of it and feel a length of chain hanging from it. You must have escaped. You look down at yourself for the first time and see that you are nearly naked, wearing just scraps of clothing. A narrow halter is pulled taut across your ample breasts, a short cloth skirt barely covers your private areas, and your feet are covered in soft leather boots. Your legs are long and shapely, your hips are wide and your waist thin. You don't remember looking like this. Have you always been so shapely, so desirable? His voice interrupts your thoughts. "You're a brave one, runnin' into the Shatter." He takes a slow step forward, his heavy boots crunching over broken glass. His scrap-metal pauldron clinks as he shifts, the rusted spikes at his shoulder dark with something old and dried. "Now..." His grin widens as he reaches out a massive, scarred hand, his fingers cracked and blackened with filth. "Gimme a taste 'fore I take you back to the Boneking." The air grows thick with his presence, the stench of sweat, leather, and blood rolling off him in waves. Behind him, past the ruined desks and collapsed ceiling tiles, you see shadows shifting. Others are waiting, watching. His fingers flex, impatient. Your pulse pounds in your ears. Every instinct in you screams danger. If you try to fight, grab a shard of glass, a broken pipe, anything you can use as a weapon to defend yourself from this massive warrior, click here. <link forthcoming> If you run, dodge past him, hope you're faster than him, click here. <link forthcoming> If you play along, stall for time, act weak and compliant hoping for an opening to fight or escape, &nbsp;click here.

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. You look down at yourself for the first time and realize that you are indeed female, and you are quite naked. You can't remember if you looked like this before, but you see that you have an ample bosom, thin waist, wide hips, and long, slender legs. You have a dream body, but you're in a nightmare. Your breath stutters in your chest, fear clawing up your throat. You still don't turn. You don't want to see what stands behind you, what commands these creatures, the chorath, with such effortless control. But the pressure in the air shifts, like an invisible weight pressing down on your shoulders. The ground beneath your feet pulses, the veins writhing beneath your bare skin as if urging you downward, as if the very world expects you to submit. Before you, the chorath stir, just barely, shivering like beasts held on a too-tight leash. They are waiting. Waiting for you to defy him. Waiting for him to release them. You swallow hard, your mind racing. Your legs tremble. Your heart hammers. If you kneel and submit to the unknown, surrendering to whatever this is and hope it buys you time, click here. If you stand defiant, unbroken, and face whatever comes next, click here. <link forthcoming> If you try to run, click here. <link forthcoming>

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 your throat, terror pinning you to the spot. Every instinct screams that looking would be the worst mistake of your life. Instead, you focus on the pack of creatures before you. Their bodies remain unnaturally still, their twisted forms locked in some unnatural tension, as though they are resisting an invisible force. Their eyeless faces do not turn toward the voice. They remain fixed on you. You hear something wet drip behind you. The ground trembles beneath your feet, a slow, rhythmic thud shaking the flesh-like surface in time with your own racing heartbeat. Whatever is behind you is massive, something that should not be able to move so silently in a world made of such unnatural sound. You feel its breath, a thick, humid exhale that smells of rot, of things swallowed and forgotten in the dark. The creatures in front of you do not move. They do not attack. They seem to be waiting. For you to run? For you to fight? For you to be taken? The air itself seems to press in, urging you toward a choice. IF you turn and face the thing that has spoken, click here. <link forthcoming> If you bolt forward toward the pack, click here. <link forthcoming> If you try to escape to the side, avoiding both the thing behind you and the pack in front of you, click here.

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 armor. He grunts, staggering back a step, but he doesn't fall. Instead, his gaze snaps to you, his face twisting in pain and rage. "You little..." His words cut off as he rips the blade free, blood seeping through the tear in his gambeson. He throws the knife aside and lunges forward. You dodge, barely rolling out of reach as his sword swings downward, cleaving through empty space where you had stood a second ago. You scramble back, panting, your pulse thundering in your ears. He's wounded, but he's still coming, and now he's angry. Your hand flies to your belt... Another knife and move back? Your twin daggers and close in? Smoke powder and run? You're running out of time, and you have to decide. If you throw more knives and try to put distance between you and the knight, click here. If you pull your twin daggers and close for melee, click here <link forthcoming> IF you throw a smoke bomb and try to escape, click here <link forthcoming>

Guilty... but I only crush on them as they looked when I was a kid. I may like older guys, but there's a limit. The next person needs a cuddle.

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 flickering with something else... curiosity, perhaps. "That depends," he says, spinning his sword in one hand as if for emphasis. "On you." You keep your posture poised, lifting your chin. "If I am the last of my house, then I am more valuable alive than dead. The king you serve will need me for legitimacy. A ruler is only as strong as the alliances he holds." You let the words hang between you, letting him weigh them. The knight's eyes darken with consideration. He doesn't deny it. Good. You might be on to something. "Go on," he says, shifting his stance. Your heart pounds, but you push forward. "Killing me ends a war. Keeping me wins the future." You meet his gaze unflinchingly. "Let me speak to your king. I can make him an offer no battlefield victory can match." He watches you for a moment, his lips curling into something that isn't quite a smile. It's something else, something assessing. "Interesting," he muses, stepping closer, his presence looming over you. "You think you're in a position to bargain?" He tilts his head, considering you like a puzzle he intends to solve. "Perhaps," he says at last, his voice low, unreadable. "Or perhaps you’re simply trying to buy time." His fingers brush against the dagger at his belt. "Shall we find out?" His intent is uncertain, but it doesn't seem good. He might be ready to kill you, rape you, or just capture you for some worse fate later. What do you do? If you double down on your current strategy, reinforcing your argument, click here. If you bluff harder, raising the stakes with new falsehoods that could be more threatening or could be exposed, click here. If you shift tactics before it’s too late, click here.

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 don't recognize this place, but your body does. Somewhere deep inside, some part of the princess you now inhabit remembers the paths, the hidden corridors, the places to hide. Your mind races to keep up, your instincts screaming at you to move faster, to get away before he... There is a crash behind you. He's gaining. You turn a sharp corner, catching yourself against the wall, your fingers scraping across jagged stone. Down a circular staircase you run as if your life depends on it. It may. At the bottom of the stairs, a long hallway stretches before you, lined with massive wooden doors, most of them thrown open, their contents ransacked and ruined. You know that the door at the far end is the way out, but a long straight hall will give him time to catch up, and there's no way to know what awaits you once you get into the main areas of the castle. You also know that there is a secret door inside the second room, the entrance to a hidden passage that will take you to the library downstairs. Glancing to your left, you see that the windows are open. You used to climb out onto the roof outside as a child and play despite your parents warnings. The guards' footsteps thunder down the stairs behind you. You have seconds to make your choice. If you run for the door at the end of the hallway and escape outside, click here. If you try to make it through the secret door before the guard catches up, click here. If you jump out the window onto the roof outside to make your escape, click here.

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 with a bemused smirk, arms still at his sides, as if he doesn't even consider you a threat. "Brave," he muses, tilting his head. "Pointless, but brave." Then he moves. Faster than you thought possible in such heavy armor, he steps inside your guard. You barely have time to react before his gauntleted hand lashes out and clamps around your wrist. Pain shoots up your arm as he squeezes, forcing your fingers open. The sword tumbles from your grip, clattering loudly against the stone floor. A moment later, you're yanked forward, stumbling against the cold steel of his breastplate. "Did you really think you could fight me?" he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. His voice is thick with amusement, but beneath it, there's something else, something dangerous. His free hand comes up, brushing the loose strands of your hair from your face, tucking them behind your ear with an unsettling gentleness. Your heart races. You try to shove him away, but he doesn't budge. His grip on your wrist tightens just enough to remind you of his strength. "You have nothing left, Princess," he says, lowering his voice. "No father, no kingdom, no knights to come to your rescue." He leans in slightly, his lips curving into a smirk. "But that doesn’t mean you have to die today." You swallow hard, trying to suppress the shiver crawling down your spine. "What are you saying?" "I’m offering you a choice." His fingers ghost along your throat, a mockery of tenderness. "You can die here like the rest of your family. Or..." He lets the word hang in the air, drawing it out. "You can surrender. Pledge yourself to the new king. Serve us. Serve me." His thumb brushes against your pulse point. "You might even find your place in this new world." His meaning is clear. "Choose wisely, your highness." His smirk widens. "I won’t ask twice." If you agree to serve him, click here. If you try to make a counter-offer, click here. If you spit in his face and tell him where he can shove his offer, click here. If you kick him between the legs and try to escape, click here. <link forthcoming>

Guilty on both counts - I was single digits driving into the Adirondacks and when we started going up in elevation I kept feeling this pressure in my hear and then suddenly POP! and I was like what the...? I think I said something like, "Mom, I think my eardrum just broke!" and panicked a little. As for botching a dish - I tried to make this vegetarian thing for my niece and the whole family and it was just... gross. I messed up, or the recipe was off, or something. I think that dish was one of those "science" recipes that has to be followed exactly, which is not at all how I cook. I'm a pinch dash cook, just adding stuff that feels right til I get a good taste close to what I want. I have no idea what I use half the time, but everyone seems to like it! The next person will never understand the appeal of professional wrestling.

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 visitors, and no clue what you’re waiting for. The walls are painted a dull off-white, the kind that seems deliberately designed to be forgettable. A single door stands opposite you, closed, its frosted window revealing nothing beyond. There’s a clock, its second hand sweeping steadily along, but you don't know if it's eight-thirty in the morning or at night. You feel time crawling over your skin, stretching unbearably. You shift in your seat, the material creaking under your weight. Nothing else moves. The window where a receptionist might sit is closed, its frosted glass impossibly opaque. Then, with a metallic sliding sound, the reception window opens. The receptionist leans forward, her posture impeccable, her crisp white shirt unwrinkled. Her eyes meet yours with a practiced, unreadable calm. A polite, professional smile tugs at her lips. She glances at something on the desk, just out of your sight beneath the window, and then speaks in a smooth, almost rehearsed voice. If the receptionist says, "Doctor Ross will see you now, Miss Hastings," click here. <link forthcoming> If the receptionist says, "Mister Drake is ready for your interview, Miss Hastings," and gives you a jealous look, click here. <link forthcoming> If the receptionist says, "You're the last audition, please come in, Miss Hastings," and looks you up and down appraisingly, click here. If the receptionist says, "Principal Markham is ready for you now, Miss Hastings," and gives you a disapproving expression, click here. <link forthcoming> If the receptionist says, "Miss Harcourt is available now, Detective Hastings," and slips you her phone number with a wink, click here. <link forthcoming> If the receptionist says, "Step in, strip off your civvies, place them in the box, and wait until you're called," with a look of clinical detachment, click here.

Not guilty, but now I know what I'm getting for dinner tonight. The next person has a signature dish they love to prepare for others.

boy am i... I bought 2 18-pakcs just before it all hit and I still have 8 left... stretching them to the limit. GUILTY! The next person feels loved.