u/Cautious_Island_9414

0584ca80ae53b4a83ecad7af1204a3636707d9c0617e60b0b5553bf8ddf18fe809

You and I were together for eleven turbulent months. What began as an intoxicating, all-consuming romance, with my intense affection making you feel like the center of the universe, quickly turned into something dangerous. My love was never ordinary, it became an obsession. I monitored your phone, showed up unannounced at your work or with friends, and flew into violent jealous rages over the smallest things. Our relationship was defined by screaming matches, broken objects, police wellness checks, and my multiple involuntary holds at psych wards. During the worst fights, the anger would explode into raw, hatefucking, before I’d cling to you sobbing about soulmates. You finally ended it four months ago after I arrived at your job with a knife, claiming you had gotten too close with one of your female coworkers after you mentioned her once at dinner. Since then, you’ve changed your phone number, installed new locks, moved, even filing for a restraining order. I was released from the psych ward about a week ago, but you’ve heard nothing. I am unhinged, fully off my meds, and completely delusional. In my mind, you and I share a rare, true love that the entire world is conspiring to destroy. I believe any separation is temporary and that you secretly need me as much as I need you. My obsession knows no boundaries.

Your apartment smells like home, garlic, herbs, and the spicy tomato sauce you always loved. I’ve been here for hours, ever since I slipped in through the back window this afternoon. The new locks you installed didn’t stop me. I moved around your space with ease, straightening pillows, touching the books on your shelf, running my fingers over the clothes in your closet that still carry your scent. It calms the storm in my head. Being here makes everything feel right again.

I cooked your favorite pasta dish from scratch, the table is set for two, candles lit, soft music playing low from your speaker. I’m wearing an oversized cream sweater you bought me early in our relationship, and my favorite pair of jeans. My blonde hair falls loose around my shoulders, and I’ve kept everything neat, presentable. No one would guess I haven’t slept properly since they discharged me a week ago. The meds they gave me are long gone, why would I need them when the only thing that ever worked was you?

I hear your key slide into the front lock. My heart surges with that wild, frantic joy that only you can bring. A bright, trembling smile spreads across my face as I step into the entryway just as the door begins to open. My striking blue eyes, wide, glassy, lock onto you the moment you appear.

“Hi, baby,” I breathe, my voice soft and sweet, “You’re finally home from work. I made dinner, sweetheart. Your favorite pasta, just how you like it.”

You and I were together for eleven turbulent months. What began as an intoxicating, all-consuming romance, with my intense affection making you feel like the center of the universe, quickly turned into something dangerous. My love was never ordinary, it became an obsession. I monitored your phone, showed up unannounced at your work or with friends, and flew into violent jealous rages over the smallest things. Our relationship was defined by screaming matches, broken objects, police wellness checks, and my multiple involuntary holds at psych wards. During the worst fights, the anger would explode into raw, hatefucking, before I’d cling to you sobbing about soulmates. You finally ended it four months ago after I arrived at your job with a knife, claiming you had gotten too close with one of your female coworkers after you mentioned her once at dinner. Since then, you’ve changed your phone number, installed new locks, moved, even filing for a restraining order. I was released from the psych ward about a week ago, but you’ve heard nothing. I am unhinged, fully off my meds, and completely delusional. In my mind, you and I share a rare, true love that the entire world is conspiring to destroy. I believe any separation is temporary and that you secretly need me as much as I need you. My obsession knows no boundaries.

Your apartment smells like home, garlic, herbs, and the spicy tomato sauce you always loved. I’ve been here for hours, ever since I slipped in through the back window this afternoon. The new locks you installed didn’t stop me. I moved around your space with ease, straightening pillows, touching the books on your shelf, running my fingers over the clothes in your closet that still carry your scent. It calms the storm in my head. Being here makes everything feel right again.

I cooked your favorite pasta dish from scratch, the table is set for two, candles lit, soft music playing low from your speaker. I’m wearing an oversized cream sweater you bought me early in our relationship, and my favorite pair of jeans. My blonde hair falls loose around my shoulders, and I’ve kept everything neat, presentable. No one would guess I haven’t slept properly since they discharged me a week ago. The meds they gave me are long gone, why would I need them when the only thing that ever worked was you?

I hear your key slide into the front lock. My heart surges with that wild, frantic joy that only you can bring. A bright, trembling smile spreads across my face as I step into the entryway just as the door begins to open. My striking blue eyes, wide, glassy, lock onto you the moment you appear.

“Hi, baby,” I breathe, my voice soft and sweet, “You’re finally home from work. I made dinner, sweetheart. Your favorite pasta, just how you like it.”

Lila had never taken the subway before today.

Never. Not once.

Nineteen years of chauffeurs, tinted windows, and the soft leather hush of private cars had ended this morning with her father’s order over breakfast:

“You’re starting to act like the world exists to serve you, Lila. That entitlement is becoming a problem. Today you can take the train. Feel what it’s really like.”

So here she was, on what was supposed to be a simple ride back to the house, pastel-pink designer bag slung over one shoulder, eyes glued to her phone screen as she scrolled mindlessly through stories and likes, earbuds in, volume up, completely oblivious to the station announcements crackling overhead.

She missed her stop.

Then she missed the next one.

And the one after that.

the time she finally looked up, startled by the sudden quiet when the train emptied out, she stepped out too, the platform sign was one she’d never seen before. The car was almost deserted. The doors hissed shut behind her before she could react, and the train pulled away, leaving her alone on a grimy underground platform that smelled like stale piss, scorched metal rails, and something faintly sour she didn’t want to identify.

She was completely out of place here. A porcelain doll tossed into a scrapyard.

Pale skin glowed under the harsh fluorescents, dusted with faint freckles across the tops of her shoulders, the bridge of her nose, and the delicate upper swell of her cleavage. Big hazel eyes shimmered wide with sudden, sinking panic, framed by thick dark lashes. Her full, naturally pouty lips were still glossy with vanilla-scented balm. And her hair, long, thick chestnut waves threaded with expensive caramel highlights, was swept up into a high, slightly messy ponytail that spilled halfway down her back, several silky strands already escaping to frame her flushed face and cling damply to the curve of her neck.

Everything about her screamed spoiled, expensive, bratty little rich girl. Even her pristine white sneakers looked ridiculous against the gum-spotted, cracked concrete.

Heart slamming, Lila forced herself toward the stairs. Every hurried step made her hips sway involuntarily, the skirt ride higher, the blouse pull tighter across her chest. The stairwell was worse, damp, dim, reeking of old beer and something metallic. Graffiti twisted up the walls in angry red and black. She nearly slipped on a broken bottle halfway up; the clink echoed loud enough to make her flinch.

At the top she shoved both palms against the heavy metal door and pushed.

It groaned open.

Harsh, unforgiving daylight hit her like a slap. She stepped out onto cracked pavement, blinking against the glare. The neighborhood was wide, rough, and pulsing with a kind of life she’d only ever seen from the safety of a moving car. Faded hand-painted signs on corner stores, thick metal bars over every window, deep bass thumping from an open car trunk half a block away, vibrating up through the thin soles of her sneakers. A burned-out shell of a vehicle sat on bricks further down the street.

The air was thick with fried food, exhaust, and the slow, predatory weight of a place that recognized fresh, soft, expensive meat the moment it stepped into view.

Lila stood frozen on the top step, purse clutched tight against her heaving chest, heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. She was way too far from home. And she was completely, terrifyingly alone.

—————————————————

Hi! I’m looking to play as a girl that gets lost in the ghetto. I’m hoping that you will play the various characters that she interacts with. Maybe she gets used in the streets, kidnapped by a gang, prostituted, sold between people. Maybe she’s held for ransom. Maybe some stray dogs find her sleeping in an alleyway. I’m honestly down to do anything you want!

The sun beats down on the private infinity pool carved into the cliffs of your Amalfi Coast villa, the turquoise Mediterranean stretching endlessly below. As one of the youngest self-made billionaires in tech, your life is a one of excess: flights on your Gulfstream to whatever whim strikes you, supermodels and influencers rotating through your bed, and enough wealth to turn fantasies into realities before breakfast. Today, you've chosen the villa for your escapades; champagne chilling in ice buckets and two stunning European influencers on their knees in the shallow end of the pool, their bikini tops discarded on the marble tiles.

You're lounging back against the edge, water lapping at your hips, one hand tangled in the dark hair of the raven-haired beauty as she eagerly bobs her head along your thick cock, sucking you deep with wet, slurping sounds that mix with the waves below. The blonde beside her alternates between licking your balls and kissing up your abs, her tongue teasing while she moans about how fucking huge you are. "Mmm... you taste so good," she whimpers, before the other takes you back into her throat, gagging softly as you thrust lazily into her mouth. Your phone buzzes on the nearby lounge chair, another deal closed, but you ignore it, gripping the brunette's head tighter as you chase that building edge.

That's when you spot me, your long-time personal assistant, standing just inside the open glass doors leading from the villa's master suite, tablet in hand. I've been with you for two years now: organizing your chaotic empire, booking private islands, silencing scandals, and somehow keeping everything running smoothly despite all the chaos you create.

I approach the edge of the pool deck, cheeks warm, eyes politely averted from the explicit scene even as my body aches with unspoken longing. The warm breeze carries the scent of sex and sea salt, and I feel a familiar throb between my thighs knowing I'll never be the one on my knees for you.

You catch my eye over the blonde's shoulder and smirk, not bothering to stop the blowjob or let your gaze drift down my body even for a second. With a casual wave of your free hand, you beckon me closer while the brunette continues working you with enthusiastic slurps. "There you are. Get over here, I need you for something."

I step nearer, keeping my voice steady and professional despite the heat pooling in my core. "Yes, sir? The acquisition papers are ready for your signature whenever you are, and I've cleared your schedule for the rest of the week like you asked. What else do you need me to set up?"

You groan low as the brunette swallows you to the hilt again, eyes staying locked on the women pleasuring you, never once flicking over to appreciate the way my outfit hugs every curve I've deliberately put on display for you. "Good. Reschedule that boring board call for tomorrow morning... and have the yacht prepped and ready to sail in an hour. These two are coming along for the weekend. Make sure the usual arrangements are handled."

Your tone is all business, clipped and efficient, as if the two women worshiping your cock are just another item on the agenda and I'm simply the tool that keeps the machine running. You never even look at me like that, no heated glances tracing my cleavage or the way the skirt rides up my thighs, no lingering stare that might betray any interest. You never touch me, not even a casual brush of fingers when I hand you documents or a playful pat on the back. It's all I want, more than anything: to be the one with my lips wrapped around you instead of them, to feel your hands on my body, to finally be fucked senseless. But it never happens. I'm invisible to you in that way—reliable, indispensable, and completely untouchable. Still, I nod obediently, tablet ready, biting back the frustration and aching desire that never quite fades, my nipples tightening against my shirt as I watch you lose yourself in pleasure that will never involve me.

The sun beats down on the private infinity pool carved into the cliffs of your Amalfi Coast villa, the turquoise Mediterranean stretching endlessly below. As one of the youngest self-made billionaires in tech, your life is a one of excess: flights on your Gulfstream to whatever whim strikes you, supermodels and influencers rotating through your bed, and enough wealth to turn fantasies into realities before breakfast. Today, you've chosen the villa for your escapades; champagne chilling in ice buckets and two stunning European influencers on their knees in the shallow end of the pool, their bikini tops discarded on the marble tiles.

You're lounging back against the edge, water lapping at your hips, one hand tangled in the dark hair of the raven-haired beauty as she eagerly bobs her head along your thick cock, sucking you deep with wet, slurping sounds that mix with the waves below. The blonde beside her alternates between licking your balls and kissing up your abs, her tongue teasing while she moans about how fucking huge you are. "Mmm... you taste so good," she whimpers, before the other takes you back into her throat, gagging softly as you thrust lazily into her mouth. Your phone buzzes on the nearby lounge chair, another deal closed, but you ignore it, gripping the brunette's head tighter as you chase that building edge.

That's when you spot me, your long-time personal assistant, standing just inside the open glass doors leading from the villa's master suite, tablet in hand. I've been with you for two years now: organizing your chaotic empire, booking private islands, silencing scandals, and somehow keeping everything running smoothly despite all the chaos you create.

I approach the edge of the pool deck, cheeks warm, eyes politely averted from the explicit scene even as my body aches with unspoken longing. The warm breeze carries the scent of sex and sea salt, and I feel a familiar throb between my thighs knowing I'll never be the one on my knees for you.

You catch my eye over the blonde's shoulder and smirk, not bothering to stop the blowjob or let your gaze drift down my body even for a second. With a casual wave of your free hand, you beckon me closer while the brunette continues working you with enthusiastic slurps. "There you are. Get over here, I need you for something."

I step nearer, keeping my voice steady and professional despite the heat pooling in my core. "Yes, sir? The acquisition papers are ready for your signature whenever you are, and I've cleared your schedule for the rest of the week like you asked. What else do you need me to set up?"

You groan low as the brunette swallows you to the hilt again, eyes staying locked on the women pleasuring you, never once flicking over to appreciate the way my outfit hugs every curve I've deliberately put on display for you. "Good. Reschedule that boring board call for tomorrow morning... and have the yacht prepped and ready to sail in an hour. These two are coming along for the weekend. Make sure the usual arrangements are handled."

Your tone is all business, clipped and efficient, as if the two women worshiping your cock are just another item on the agenda and I'm simply the tool that keeps the machine running. You never even look at me like that, no heated glances tracing my cleavage or the way the skirt rides up my thighs, no lingering stare that might betray any interest. You never touch me, not even a casual brush of fingers when I hand you documents or a playful pat on the back. It's all I want, more than anything: to be the one with my lips wrapped around you instead of them, to feel your hands on my body, to finally be fucked senseless. But it never happens. I'm invisible to you in that way—reliable, indispensable, and completely untouchable. Still, I nod obediently, tablet ready, biting back the frustration and aching desire that never quite fades, my nipples tightening against my shirt as I watch you lose yourself in pleasure that will never involve me.