u/unusualend

You shouldn't.

A self imposed limitation that you've let linger like a specter over your life for too long - and one that seems so utterly meaningless, now that you're sitting across the table from a veritable adonis in the flesh.

You told yourself it was a simple accident, an unthinking swipe of your finger that lowered your age range on Tinder down to eighteen. But with love and lust, there are no accidents, only curiosity.

So you find yourself here, on the precipice of where mere idle curiosity can take you - on a date with a man half your age.

You shouldn't.

Yet you linger, letting him ply you with cheap drinks and flattery, fascinated by the way his eyes are drawn to you. Thinking himself subtle when his gaze traces the outline of your breasts through the clinging fabric of your too-tight dress. The subtle smirk in the corner of his mouth, as his mind races to mentally undress you. The truth - that he's hardly unique. That droves of young men just like him have gazed upon you with the same hunger, the same desire - all while you demurred, claiming lustful looks were mere innocent glances.

But you know better now. Your own eyes opened to a bacchanal of lean, muscular flesh that you've long denied yourself. Young, muscular bodies - practically bursting from beneath tight shirts. So unlike the dad bods and their ilk you've made your lot in life till now.

You shouldn't.

But you do. A woman like you shouldn't be taking a man half her age back to her car to fuck like college coeds do in the dead of night.

But when his hands pin your own above your head, and you feel his stiffening cock press against the needy heat of your sex, maybe you don't want to be that woman before. The woman who says...

You shouldn't.

But you want this. You don't care about his mumbled excuses about misplacing his condoms. There's a seething fire between your thighs that won't be sated for anything less than a savage thrust of raw cock.

Feeling his cockhead press against the lips of your cunt - errant words of desperate need that you haven't uttered since you were his own age spilling from your lips.

You do.

His sudden thrust fills you - your world suddenly transposed into a savage focus. Feeling nothing but the thick shaft grinding against your clenching walls. His whispered murmurs of how tight you are spurring you to meet him with every lurid movement. Bucking your hips as your ankles tangle behind his back.

Wild and wanton. Pounded in the backseat of your car like you're a reckless college girl instead of a woman who ought to be know better.

But who needs knowing better, when you're being fucked senseless. Your mind twisting, twirling in the throes of your own blissful ascent to peaks of pleasure. All sense of decorum and rationality pounded to pieces by a plundering shaft you so willingly beckoned into your searing depths.

You cum.

Beautifully. Spluttering, senseless words of pleasure spouted from crimson-painted lips. Tightening around his shaft, milking him for every last iota of pleasure as he hits his own orgasmic brink and spills virile seed inside you.

---

A lifetime being 'good' has brought you many things - but you've denied so much on the path to stability.

So why not cut loose. Silence that little voice in your head that decides that fucking certain guys is a bad idea. It's time to mantle your own sexual renaissance and make good on all the bad ideas you've left behind in your wake - all the guys you thought it'd be 'bad' to bed.

Part of the fun is the journey and I'm excited by the idea of your character's change and transformations over the course of it. Ideally, who you begin as will be a very different person to who she is at the end of the story.

Let me know a little bit about your character and the kind of tour you'd like to take her on. Older women are encouraged and appreciated - it's never too late to turn over a new leaf, after all.

Limits: No Underage Characters

Everyone always said that hooking up with a stranger was easy - yet here you are, standing awkwardly in the entryway of this dive bar, squinting through the dim light in search of the man who will be your entryway into your new life. The bar's patrons look back with hungry gazes, eyes never once deigning to glance at your face - intent instead on roaming the breadth of your body, examining just how you look in this too-tight dress you've squeezed yourself into for tonight.

Because tonight is special, an anxious expedition into the unknown - your first dipped toe into a life of debauchery and wanton sex you've only heard of second hand. This is so unlike you - and that thought alone sends tingles spiraling down the arc of your spine.

You sit at the bar beside someone who's name you never learn - who plies you with a seemingly endless cavalcade of drinks and conversation that consists of ordering you more. In the midst of your alcohol addled haze, every word you say seems delightful on the tip of your tongue - and you remain blissfully unaware that the man keeping your glass topped hasn't been listening to a word you've said this entire evening.

So, when he follows you to the bar's bathroom, it seems only natural to invite him in with you.

You find yourself standing opposite a man whose name he never told you or you lost somewhere in your cups - whose calloused hands undress you faster than even his prying eyes. There's no care or intimacy in his touch as he presses you against the wall - forcing your cheek up against the tile as he tugs the panties you'd painstakingly chosen down to puddle at your ankles.

Perhaps you murmur something about a condom - some relic from a time when you had more sense than vodka on your mind. He grunts some dismissive retort that he never carries any - what an asshole. But, in for a penny, in for a-

His cock pounds into you, a single, powerful thrust that impales you on the full length of his shaft. The lips of your sex spread around his girth, gripping him like a vice as he pummels you up against the wall.

In this moment, you shouldn't be doing this fades away in favor of this feels so good - your mind awash with pleasures you'd never known, till your tongue lolls dumbly from your lips as this stranger pounds your brains to ephemeral dust.

But as quickly as it begins, it ends - the warm, hard cock that had neatly been sequestered inside your wet, tightness retreating. A sudden emptiness, undercut with deep craving for more.

Then, the sudden sensation of something warm oozing from your well-fucked cunt - a trickle of cum that starts to run down your thigh.

Oh shit.

Any thoughts or fears you might have about this sudden revelation are cut short as the stranger slaps you on the ass and murmurs that singular word that will come to define you.

"Slut."

Maybe hooking up with strangers is easy.

---

Welcome to your personalized, guided tour to the new you - one who has a lot more fun than the old, respectable you ever did.

As always, all aspects of the story are at your discretion - and I'm happy to tailor the experience to your comfort level.

In the mood for a sex-positive jaunt of sluttery - kindly look out the right window to see all the boytoys you'll be milking your orgasms out of for the foreseeable future.

Perhaps you're more inclined towards a darker tale - well, we're currently passing all the assholes who'll use and abuse you on the left.

Part of the fun is the journey and I'm excited by the idea of your character's change and transformations over the course of it. Ideally, who you begin as will be a very different person to who she is at the end of the story.

Let me know a little bit about your character and the kind of tour you'd like to take her on. Older women are encouraged and appreciated - it's never too late to turn over a new leaf, after all.

Limits: No Underage Characters

Don't fuck your students.

A brazen reminder hastily scrawled in red lipstick within the margins of your faculty handbook. For any other Professor, the rule against fraternizing with students would be tacit acknowledgement that fucking students is explicitly against the college's rules - but, your crimson cursive stating the obvious serves as an immodest acknowledgement that you very much need the reminder.

Perhaps, even in this very moment as one of your students lounges against your desk during office hours. Smirk clinging to his lips as he tosses back a few errant locks of gleaming gold hair with foppish grace, as if even he's aware that the lies that leap haphazardly from the tip of his tongue don't matter when they're formed by a face that handsome.

Your handbook lays open on your desk, pages spread like your thighs beneath the concealment of your wooden desk. It's as if you're daring him to read a book for once in his adult life, to spot the shameless proof of your temptation - or, failing that, simply let his eyes fall upon your cleavage from where it lurks behind a recently unbuttoned blouse.

Failing is all he seems to do in your classes. Never does the reading, hasn't turned in a paper that wasn't spat straight out of Chat GPT, and you're not sure he even knows that college classes have exams. Worse, he doesn't get the hint even when you sign his "F"s in lipstick. You ought to be raking him over the proverbial coals for all the bullshit excuses that he carelessly tosses your way - but it's so hard to care about such petty things as grades and your professional reputation, when all you can imagine is putting that pink lying tongue to better use carving a slick, wet path down your collarbone. To let him whisper more pretty little lies straight into your ears as his fingers plunge beneath the curtain of your pencil skirt, to stoke the heat that he so unknowingly had kindled between your legs.

You really shouldn't be imagining such things - not when the subject of your lurid fantasies is standing before you. Giving you sidelong glances seemingly steeped in awareness of your growing arousal - that infuriating smirk growing ever more knowing, ever more aggravating.

Like his clothes - fuckboy pink pastel shorts and a hastily tossed on polo that clings to his sculpted chest. He's from whichever sports pitch he's made his lair instead of attending your classes, and that sweat slicked top is practically molded to his lithe muscles. The whole ensembles ought to be tossed out, preferably onto the floor of your office as you guide him into a chair sticky with your spilled arousal. Letting you taste his bare skin without annoying fabric standing between your tongue and the subject of your temptation, as your fingers tiptoe down flat, washboard abs to curl around a thick shaft.

Imagining perching atop him, settling one finger against his lips. Frankly, you don't give a fuck what he has to say - only what his body can do for yours. Lowering yourself down, feeling the tip of his cock spread the lips of your cunt. The handbook laying forgotten, discarded on your desk along with half your grading as you sequester his bare cock deep into the wet, waiting tightness of your sex. Grinding against him as his hands finds your hips, gripping you possessively - arching your back as you ride him with all the wild abandon of a woman who has abandoned any sense of decorum or duty.

Clenching around him tightly, as if your body itself won't let this moment go. Your nails raking down his chest, marking this frat boy hunk in a way that his coed girlfriend would never dare to. Letting him sit in your chair as you make his lap your mount, slamming your toned ass down against his thighs as your office fills with the sounds of sex and creaking office furniture.

Not stopping until he gasps, amidst a moment where his macho stoicism pauses for a beat as his cock pulses deep inside you - a torrent of his young, virile seed flooding you in an instant.

Standing now. Hips swaying side to side as a trickle of his release runs down your thigh, as you reach over the flip the handbook shut. Whoops.

No point sticking to the rules now...

---

It's a temptation - being surrounded by young men in the prime of their lives. All the rules say not to, but are you going to let some stuffy book dictate who you can and can't fuck?

Let me know a little bit about your character.

Limits: No Underage Characters

Don't fuck your students.

A brazen reminder hastily scrawled in red lipstick within the margins of your faculty handbook. For any other Professor, the rule against fraternizing with students would be tacit acknowledgement that fucking students is explicitly against the college's rules - but, your crimson cursive stating the obvious serves as an immodest acknowledgement that you very much need the reminder.

Perhaps, even in this very moment as one of your students lounges against your desk during office hours. Smirk clinging to his lips as he tosses back a few errant locks of gleaming gold hair with foppish grace, as if even he's aware that the lies that leap haphazardly from the tip of his tongue don't matter when they're formed by a face that handsome.

Your handbook lays open on your desk, pages spread like your thighs beneath the concealment of your wooden desk. It's as if you're daring him to read a book for once in his adult life, to spot the shameless proof of your temptation - or, failing that, simply let his eyes fall upon your cleavage from where it lurks behind a recently unbuttoned blouse.

Failing is all he seems to do in your classes. Never does the reading, hasn't turned in a paper that wasn't spat straight out of Chat GPT, and you're not sure he even knows that college classes have exams. Worse, he doesn't get the hint even when you sign his "F"s in lipstick. You ought to be raking him over the proverbial coals for all the bullshit excuses that he carelessly tosses your way - but it's so hard to care about such petty things as grades and your professional reputation, when all you can imagine is putting that pink lying tongue to better use carving a slick, wet path down your collarbone. To let him whisper more pretty little lies straight into your ears as his fingers plunge beneath the curtain of your pencil skirt, to stoke the heat that he so unknowingly had kindled between your legs.

You really shouldn't be imagining such things - not when the subject of your lurid fantasies is standing before you. Giving you sidelong glances seemingly steeped in awareness of your growing arousal - that infuriating smirk growing ever more knowing, ever more aggravating.

Like his clothes - fuckboy pink pastel shorts and a hastily tossed on polo that clings to his sculpted chest. He's from whichever sports pitch he's made his lair instead of attending your classes, and that sweat slicked top is practically molded to his lithe muscles. The whole ensembles ought to be tossed out, preferably onto the floor of your office as you guide him into a chair sticky with your spilled arousal. Letting you taste his bare skin without annoying fabric standing between your tongue and the subject of your temptation, as your fingers tiptoe down flat, washboard abs to curl around a thick shaft.

Imagining perching atop him, settling one finger against his lips. Frankly, you don't give a fuck what he has to say - only what his body can do for yours. Lowering yourself down, feeling the tip of his cock spread the lips of your cunt. The handbook laying forgotten, discarded on your desk along with half your grading as you sequester his bare cock deep into the wet, waiting tightness of your sex. Grinding against him as his hands finds your hips, gripping you possessively - arching your back as you ride him with all the wild abandon of a woman who has abandoned any sense of decorum or duty.

Clenching around him tightly, as if your body itself won't let this moment go. Your nails raking down his chest, marking this frat boy hunk in a way that his coed girlfriend would never dare to. Letting him sit in your chair as you make his lap your mount, slamming your toned ass down against his thighs as your office fills with the sounds of sex and creaking office furniture.

Not stopping until he gasps, amidst a moment where his macho stoicism pauses for a beat as his cock pulses deep inside you - a torrent of his young, virile seed flooding you in an instant.

Standing now. Hips swaying side to side as a trickle of his release runs down your thigh, as you reach over the flip the handbook shut. Whoops.

No point sticking to the rules now...

---

It's a temptation - being surrounded by young men in the prime of their lives. All the rules say not to, but are you going to let some stuffy book dictate who you can and can't fuck?

Let me know a little bit about your character.

Limits: No Underage Characters

"Do slaves have names?"

It’s not a question I’m accustomed to being asked. Most slaves are cowed enough by their corrective training to know such rhetorical quandaries are answered by the swift rebuke of a slap across the face. Even now, I have to place a hand on my right wrist to still the instinctive desire to correct the woman before me - something about the way you hold yourself tells me that even the light chiding of a slap would not be met with the expected bowed head and “Sorry Master” that I’ve come to expect.

So, I do something I haven’t done before with previous purchased slaves - I give your question some sincere thought.

Some slaves have names, obtained in their formerly free past or bestowed by owners and trainers as a way of distinguishing their property. Others, particularly those that have never known a life outside of the arcology and are freshly collared, may have an alphanumeric designation for administrative purpose - or, indeed, no name at all if they were sourced from a small family-run bodyshop that lacked a more detailed inventory system.

Even I myself had no name, or so I’ve been told - though I’ve never had a reason to doubt the veracity of the claim. Raised, or rather apprenticed, by artisans in their leatherworks - taught how to braid a whip from scrap and lash a whip without breaking the skin long before I ever actually obtained a slave myself. The duo, a husband and wife, were always transparent that they were not my birth parents - but rarely was that distinction meaningful. The only reason I myself was not resigned to the inglorious fate of the slave pens myself is by entering into their care, by some quirk of fate. It was they who named me, and ultimately named me beneficiary of their modest estate when an ill-fated expedition claimed my adoptive father and twin shocks of grief and pox my adoptive mother.

“A few.” I admit, the corner of my mouth quirks upwards in a half smile. Further proof that you are new to the arcology, if the mere concept of a nameless individual is worthy of a question. It makes you dangerous, unaccustomed to the civility of society, and yet deeply exotic - so few people are capable of surviving the wastelands without a stint in one arcology or another. For trade, rest, or even a spell as collared property.

I reach out, tentatively at first, before giving the top of your head a ruffle - something about feeling her hair beneath my palm feels… oddly familiar. “The last domestic I bought didn’t have a name, actually.” I say, tapping my cheek as my thumb toys with your ear - brushing against its soft surface. “She had served a family for decades, but they were too poor to afford a second. So they just called her slave.” I say, in a tone that indicates no judgement - just a casual description of what, to me, is a banal reflection of the world as I’ve always known it. “Though, I suppose ‘slave’ is something of a name in of itself. Like… ‘Fridge’. Not particularly specific, particularly if you own more than one, so I named her ‘Marta’.” I say, thoughts wandering as I continue petting my newest possession. “The domestic, not the fridge.”

“It’s a bit of a walk to my apartment. Give you time to remember if you’ve got one. Can barely hear you over the din of the pens, so I’ll wait till we’re in quieter environs before I enquire again. Wouldn’t want to mishear and end up calling you by the wrong name for the rest of your life, eh?” I say, with a soft chuckle as I withdraw my hand from the top of your head and instead plant it in the luxurious plush of your ass. Giving a patronizing pat, I begin guiding you through the stampede of people towards the closest elevator banks on the side of the slave pen hall - maneuvering you like an unwieldy shopping cart around gawking pedestrians and fast-walking buyers alike.

More than a few heads turn, mouths agape at the sight of you in the flesh. I stand a little straighter, the smirk clinging to my lips a little brighter, and my palm on your ass squeezes more possessively. It seems, by dint of this initial burst of interest, that I spent my credits wisely - you’re already drawing eyes, bring attention to me. I bet most of the men in this room would pay a quarter more than I had offered the vendor to own you themselves - and, perhaps if you were a mere domestic I’d consider such a resale to be a small victory. But you are a special slave, for more than scrubbing floors and cooking meals - and, furthermore, something curdles inside of me when my mind’s eye imagines anyone else tugging at your proverbial leash.

Just a quirk of coming off of the high of owning such an exotic specimen I’m sure.

---

The world as we know it is over, and civilization has taken some turns. The most civilized bastions are arcologies, artificial city structures that can withstand the rigors of the wasteland outside - inside which the perverse desires of the ultra-wealthy who crafted them have become law.

The world of the future has mutants, gene-editing, or other types of human-like people after the collapse. Feel free to craft your own character, one way or another you'll be considered an exotic, rare find.

I'm very fond of older female characters and would be delighted to have the inclusion of one in this scene.

Limits: No Underage Characters

A soothing breeze wafts through the tall grass of the Savannah plain, soft whispering wind wisping through the errant locks of your gust-swept mane. It is a simple life - memories of the woman you were outside the picturesque environs of this constructed wildscape drift away like leaves on an updraft. So unimportant, when compared to the constructed nature that feels more like home than the abode of bricks and concrete you left behind just a week ago. Some deep, niggling part of you knows that this is an elaborate facade - but the rest of your waking thoughts rebel against such conundrums of philosophy. What feels real, feels best.

Like the warm embrace of your wild mate who shields you from the worst of the chill, his powerful arms having swept your lithe form up into his waiting arms. You can feel his savage heartbeat against your cheek, and lithe muscles lurking beneath his fur. What Tinder hookup could compare to the raw strength straining against your prying clawtips. He might possess the shape of a man, just as you have retained every womanly curve and contour from your previous human life, but he has the bearing and appearance of a wild beast. Just as you do now. Both of you relinquished the mundanity of human skin, making way for a transformation of vibrant fur, pelts adorned with stripes and spots, the colorful coat of a savage predator. The wild stylings of feral creatures that look at home, basking in the morning sunlight.

Your mate is not your husband or your boyfriend - frankly, it feels so hard to remember that pink, human creature that had that epithet. Such titles are cast aside the moment you enter the park, shedding your clothes and skin alike for fur and fang- to live for a time among your prey, as you roam the primordial grass that you've always felt a stronger affinity for than the glass-stoked buildings and concrete passageways of your urban home. He feels so unimportant compared to the natural majesty of the wildcat draped lithely across you. The creature whose body you find wrapped about your own could be anything, anyone in that faraway place - a lawyer, a businessman, a busboy - but here with you in his arms, he is the apex predator of the Savannah, a hunter unmatched by all but those that carry their human forms into the park.

After all, not everyone relinquishes their humanity to enter the Park. Some prefer the feeling of steel braced against their palms, and the sordid hunt that is the talk of boardrooms across the globe.

Huntsmen who stalk the plains in search of the greatest prey of all, their human fellows unbound by petty social convention or human decency and unleashed into animal form. They clutch their rifles close, eyeing the moonlit sea of grass for creatures like you and your mate. Fully embracing the newly vogue addiction of hunting women in the shape of feral creatures - bringing the gentlemanly hunt back into cultural lexicon of the nouveau riche.

You are spotted soon enough, for the administrators of this place know that an endless hunt is one that will wear the patience of all but the most dedicated. Distant bean counters and technicians that manipulate a world that seems oh so natural, on the surface. The hunters brandish their weapons, peering down their sights with tangible hunger at your lithe, fur-striped form, rippling with animal muscle. You are what they want.

They strike your mate first - he yowls and hurls himself into the grass, as you watch the viridescent sea be shorn away beneath his razor-tipped paws. His path of carnage leading him away from you, away from the hunters. You make to follow, your paws outstretched to join him when the hollow feeling of darts piercing your pelt and filling you with their numbing payload robs you of your ability to flee. This powerful, transformed body feels heavy - ungainly, when before it was nothing but striding power and wild grace. You swat at your captor, the last, desperate swipes of a cornered creature - but he ducks your lazy swipes before tackling you to the packed dirt below. Your beastly musculature fading as the dart's bite saps your strength away and the hunter pins you down.

His breath is hot against your fur, hunter atop a huntress as he fumbles with his belt - shedding the adornments of his human form to join you in his own natural glory. You can feel his cock, hardened from the thrill of hunting you, press against your waiting sex - your paws stretched out above your head as he seeks to slake his lust on his newly captured prey. Tonight his cock plunges into your tightness, stretching you around his girth as he pounds you into the very dirt you once lay upon with your mate. You screech and yowl and claw, still wild despite the tranquilizer. The glory of his conquest is married by sharp claws grasping down his chest, even as he scrambles to seize your wrists and hold you down so he can have what he wants - the seething animal heat that lurks between your furred thighs. Your mate would have bit your neck to hold you in place, but this human hunter knows no such tricks. You can feel his thick shaft inside you, pulsing with desire as his palms press down on your shoulders, keeping you pushed into the dirt as he mounts you. Hips moving with each thrust, ramming human cock into bestial cunt until the Savannah echoes with your moaning screams.

Just another part of the game each person agrees upon when they slip away from their former lives in search of something beyond their humanity in this park. Perhaps tomorrow you will hunt him, break him upon the grass as the moon and your mate watch in solemn silence - or perhaps he will return with fellow hunters, to break a huntress of her savageness beneath the civilizing thrust of their shafts.

Anything can happen in the wilderness of WildWorld.

---

Welcome to WildWorld, where humans weary of the mundane existence of their privileged city lives can augment their bodies with that of something more primal, more animalistic. The only catch - others prefer to retain their human forms and channel their savagery into the hunt, to catch and conquer their fellow humans in animal form within the bounds of the park, where such dark pursuits are considered just part of the game.

Who are you and what do you seek from this place?

Limits: No Underage Characters

"Do slaves have names?"

It’s not a question I’m accustomed to being asked. Most slaves are cowed enough by their corrective training to know such rhetorical quandaries are answered by the swift rebuke of a slap across the face. Even now, I have to place a hand on my right wrist to still the instinctive desire to correct the woman before me - something about the way you hold yourself tells me that even the light chiding of a slap would not be met with the expected bowed head and “Sorry Master” that I’ve come to expect.

So, I do something I haven’t done before with previous purchased slaves - I give your question some sincere thought.

Some slaves have names, obtained in their formerly free past or bestowed by owners and trainers as a way of distinguishing their property. Others, particularly those that have never known a life outside of the arcology and are freshly collared, may have an alphanumeric designation for administrative purpose - or, indeed, no name at all if they were sourced from a small family-run bodyshop that lacked a more detailed inventory system.

Even I myself had no name, or so I’ve been told - though I’ve never had a reason to doubt the veracity of the claim. Raised, or rather apprenticed, by artisans in their leatherworks - taught how to braid a whip from scrap and lash a whip without breaking the skin long before I ever actually obtained a slave myself. The duo, a husband and wife, were always transparent that they were not my birth parents - but rarely was that distinction meaningful. The only reason I myself was not resigned to the inglorious fate of the slave pens myself is by entering into their care, by some quirk of fate. It was they who named me, and ultimately named me beneficiary of their modest estate when an ill-fated expedition claimed my adoptive father and twin shocks of grief and pox my adoptive mother.

“A few.” I admit, the corner of my mouth quirks upwards in a half smile. Further proof that you are new to the arcology, if the mere concept of a nameless individual is worthy of a question. It makes you dangerous, unaccustomed to the civility of society, and yet deeply exotic - so few people are capable of surviving the wastelands without a stint in one arcology or another. For trade, rest, or even a spell as collared property.

I reach out, tentatively at first, before giving the top of your head a ruffle - something about feeling her hair beneath my palm feels… oddly familiar. “The last domestic I bought didn’t have a name, actually.” I say, tapping my cheek as my thumb toys with your ear - brushing against its soft surface. “She had served a family for decades, but they were too poor to afford a second. So they just called her slave.” I say, in a tone that indicates no judgement - just a casual description of what, to me, is a banal reflection of the world as I’ve always known it. “Though, I suppose ‘slave’ is something of a name in of itself. Like… ‘Fridge’. Not particularly specific, particularly if you own more than one, so I named her ‘Marta’.” I say, thoughts wandering as I continue petting my newest possession. “The domestic, not the fridge.”

“It’s a bit of a walk to my apartment. Give you time to remember if you’ve got one. Can barely hear you over the din of the pens, so I’ll wait till we’re in quieter environs before I enquire again. Wouldn’t want to mishear and end up calling you by the wrong name for the rest of your life, eh?” I say, with a soft chuckle as I withdraw my hand from the top of your head and instead plant it in the luxurious plush of your ass. Giving a patronizing pat, I begin guiding you through the stampede of people towards the closest elevator banks on the side of the slave pen hall - maneuvering you like an unwieldy shopping cart around gawking pedestrians and fast-walking buyers alike.

More than a few heads turn, mouths agape at the sight of you in the flesh. I stand a little straighter, the smirk clinging to my lips a little brighter, and my palm on your ass squeezes more possessively. It seems, by dint of this initial burst of interest, that I spent my credits wisely - you’re already drawing eyes, bring attention to me. I bet most of the men in this room would pay a quarter more than I had offered the vendor to own you themselves - and, perhaps if you were a mere domestic I’d consider such a resale to be a small victory. But you are a special slave, for more than scrubbing floors and cooking meals - and, furthermore, something curdles inside of me when my mind’s eye imagines anyone else tugging at your proverbial leash.

Just a quirk of coming off of the high of owning such an exotic specimen I’m sure.

---

The world as we know it is over, and civilization has taken some turns. The most civilized bastions are arcologies, artificial city structures that can withstand the rigors of the wasteland outside - inside which the perverse desires of the ultra-wealthy who crafted them have become law.

The world of the future has mutants, gene-editing, or other types of human-like people after the collapse. Feel free to craft your own character, one way or another you'll be considered an exotic, rare find.

I'm very fond of older female characters and would be delighted to have the inclusion of one in this scene.

Limits: No Underage Characters

Don't fuck your students.

A brazen reminder hastily scrawled in red lipstick within the margins of your faculty handbook. For any other Professor, the rule against fraternizing with students would be tacit acknowledgement that fucking students is explicitly against the college's rules - but, your crimson cursive stating the obvious serves as an immodest acknowledge that you very much need the reminder.

Perhaps, even in this very moment as one of your students lounges against your desk during office hours. Smirk clinging to his lips as he tosses back a few errant locks of gleaming gold hair with foppish grace, as if even he's aware that the lies that leap haphazardly from the tip of his tongue don't matter when they're formed by a face that handsome.

Your handbook lays open on your desk, pages spread like your thighs beneath the concealment of your wooden desk. It's as if you're daring him to read a book for once in his adult life, to spot the shameless proof of your temptation - or, failing that, simply let his eyes fall upon your cleavage from where it lurks behind a recently unbuttoned blouse.

Failing is all he seems to do in your classes. Never does the reading, hasn't turned in a paper that wasn't spat straight out of Chat GPT, and you're not sure he even knows that college classes have exams. Worse, he doesn't get the hint even when you sign his "F"s in lipstick. You ought to be raking him over the proverbial coals for all the bullshit excuses that he carelessly tosses your way - but it's so hard to care about such petty things as grades and your professional reputation, when all you can imagine is putting that pink lying tongue to better use carving a slick, wet path down your collarbone. To let him whisper more pretty little lies straight into your ears as his fingers plunge beneath the curtain of your pencil skirt, to stoke the heat that he so unknowingly had kindled between your legs.

You really shouldn't be imagining such things - not when the subject of your lurid fantasies is standing before you. Giving you sidelong glances seemingly steeped in awareness of your growing arousal - that infuriating smirk growing ever more knowing, ever more aggravating.

Like his clothes - fuckboy pink pastel shorts and a hastily tossed on polo that clings to his sculpted chest. He's from whichever sports pitch he's made his lair instead of attending your classes, and that sweat slicked top is practically molded to his lithe muscles. The whole ensembles ought to be tossed out, preferably onto the floor of your office as you guide him into a chair sticky with your spilled arousal. Letting you taste his bare skin without annoying fabric standing between your tongue and the subject of your temptation, as your fingers tiptoe down flat, washboard abs to curled around a thick shaft.

Imagining perching atop him, settling one finger against his lips. Frankly, you don't give a fuck what he has to say - only what his body can do for yours. Lowering yourself down, feeling the tip of his cock spread the lips of your cunt. The handbook laying forgotten, discarded on your desk along with half your grading as you sequester his bare cock deep into the wet, waiting tightness of your sex. Grinding against him as his hands finds your hips, gripping you possessively - arching your back as you ride him with all the wild abandon of a woman who has abandoned any sense of decorum or duty.

Clenching around him tightly, as if your body itself won't let this moment go. Your nails raking down his chest, marking this frat boy hunk in a way that his coed girlfriend would never dare to. Letting him sit in your chair as you make his lap your mount, slamming your toned ass down against his thighs as your office fills with the sounds of sex and creaking office furniture.

Not stopping until he gasps, amidst a moment where his macho stoicism pauses for a beat as his cock pulses deep inside you - a torrent of his young, virile seed flooding you in an instant.

Standing now. Hips swaying side to side as a trickle of his release runs down your thigh, as you reach over the flip the handbook shut. Whoops.

No point sticking to the rules now...

---

It's a temptation - being surrounded by young men in the prime of their lives. All the rules say not to, but are you going to let some stuffy book dictate who you can and can't fuck?

Let me know a little bit about your character.

Limits: No Underage Characters

Don't fuck your students.

A brazen reminder hastily scrawled in red lipstick within the margins of your faculty handbook. For any other Professor, the rule against fraternizing with students would be tacit acknowledgement that fucking students is explicitly against the college's rules - but, your crimson cursive stating the obvious serves as an immodest acknowledge that you very much need the reminder.

Perhaps, even in this very moment as one of your students lounges against your desk during office hours. Smirk clinging to his lips as he tosses back a few errant locks of gleaming gold hair with foppish grace, as if even he's aware that the lies that leap haphazardly from the tip of his tongue don't matter when they're formed by a face that handsome.

Your handbook lays open on your desk, pages spread like your thighs beneath the concealment of your wooden desk. It's as if you're daring him to read a book for once in his adult life, to spot the shameless proof of your temptation - or, failing that, simply let his eyes fall upon your cleavage from where it lurks behind a recently unbuttoned blouse.

Failing is all he seems to do in your classes. Never does the reading, hasn't turned in a paper that wasn't spat straight out of Chat GPT, and you're not sure he even knows that college classes have exams. Worse, he doesn't get the hint even when you sign his "F"s in lipstick. You ought to be raking him over the proverbial coals for all the bullshit excuses that he carelessly tosses your way - but it's so hard to care about such petty things as grades and your professional reputation, when all you can imagine is putting that pink lying tongue to better use carving a slick, wet path down your collarbone. To let him whisper more pretty little lies straight into your ears as his fingers plunge beneath the curtain of your pencil skirt, to stoke the heat that he so unknowingly had kindled between your legs.

You really shouldn't be imagining such things - not when the subject of your lurid fantasies is standing before you. Giving you sidelong glances seemingly steeped in awareness of your growing arousal - that infuriating smirk growing ever more knowing, ever more aggravating.

Like his clothes - fuckboy pink pastel shorts and a hastily tossed on polo that clings to his sculpted chest. He's from whichever sports pitch he's made his lair instead of attending your classes, and that sweat slicked top is practically molded to his lithe muscles. The whole ensembles ought to be tossed out, preferably onto the floor of your office as you guide him into a chair sticky with your spilled arousal. Letting you taste his bare skin without annoying fabric standing between your tongue and the subject of your temptation, as your fingers tiptoe down flat, washboard abs to curled around a thick shaft.

Imagining perching atop him, settling one finger against his lips. Frankly, you don't give a fuck what he has to say - only what his body can do for yours. Lowering yourself down, feeling the tip of his cock spread the lips of your cunt. The handbook laying forgotten, discarded on your desk along with half your grading as you sequester his bare cock deep into the wet, waiting tightness of your sex. Grinding against him as his hands finds your hips, gripping you possessively - arching your back as you ride him with all the wild abandon of a woman who has abandoned any sense of decorum or duty.

Clenching around him tightly, as if your body itself won't let this moment go. Your nails raking down his chest, marking this frat boy hunk in a way that his coed girlfriend would never dare to. Letting him sit in your chair as you make his lap your mount, slamming your toned ass down against his thighs as your office fills with the sounds of sex and creaking office furniture.

Not stopping until he gasps, amidst a moment where his macho stoicism pauses for a beat as his cock pulses deep inside you - a torrent of his young, virile seed flooding you in an instant.

Standing now. Hips swaying side to side as a trickle of his release runs down your thigh, as you reach over the flip the handbook shut. Whoops.

No point sticking to the rules now...

---

It's a temptation - being surrounded by young men in the prime of their lives. All the rules say not to, but are you going to let some stuffy book dictate who you can and can't fuck?

Let me know a little bit about your character.

Limits: No Underage Characters

'Date.'

Even now, hours after it first spilled from your freshly crimson-coated lips, that single, damnable word echoes in my mind. You may have couched your plans for the evening in a palisade of understated euphemisms - as if coy terminology could undercut the truth brazenly displayed on your shapely figure before me.

It'd be an immodest outfit on one of my classmates, let alone my mother. A crop top that exposes your midriff, drawing my eyes to the flat expense of your stomach where a hint of lithe muscle lurks beneath pale, white flesh. Low-cut and sheer enough to show off the textured fabric of the bra beneath, leopard print tonight. Tight denim shorts that ride upon your hips, showing off the lush curve of your ass as they cling to your body. So taut on your rear that the top button remains undone, showing off a flash of panties beneath the blue fabric.

It's an ensemble that screams "I want to get Fucked tonight", and even repeated exposure hasn't inured me to the sight of you wearing what helps you get laid without fail each time you go on one of your ’dates’.

That word again. Stifling any possibility of sleep as it ricochets through my mind. Imagining running rampant as my wandering imagination conjures up a buffet of mental images to occupy my thoughts. Picturing you in some seedy bar, downing drink after drink as the wayward hand of your ’date’ creeps down from the small of your back to grope your ass through those tiny little shorts. In an alleyway, with the same shorts stretched between your ankles, with your suitor knuckle deep inside your needy cunt - as your piercing glints in the dim light. In the car beside one of my friends, bent at the waist as you run your tongue down the length of his shaft and whisper sweet promises in the same voice you use with me.

Stirred from my reverie by the sound of the front door unlocking. Creaking wood intermingled with your unmistakable, giddy giggle - the one you reserve for nights like this when you even make it home at all. When you think that your surreptitious entrance goes unnoticed by your supposedly slumbering son.

The steady clack of your heels interspersed with the soft sound of leather loafers. A thud through the wall as the stealthy stroll to your bedroom is interrupted by an intermission of heavy petting in the hallway. Breathlessly listening to the sound of a zipper coming undone. A soft thump as you press back against the wall, amidst a flurry of kisses. I swear you're practically purring as the unmistakable sound of wet pussy meeting bold fingers pierces my bedroom wall. I can feel a flush of shame run through me - the sordid realization that I've heard this enough times to know what it sounds like when you're being fingered outside my door.

Lingering longer than usual - enough that I begin to wonder if this ’date’ of yours is just going to fuck you right in the hall. But eventually the footsteps resume down and into your bedroom, and your door shuts and locks.

For a moment, there's nothing but silence and my own ragged breathing. The slick sound of my cock grinding against my palm beneath the covers. I shouldn't, but I have, and I will.

It doesn't take long - not with the preamble in the hall, and likely a great deal many places more between your bedroom and wherever 'date' night was. There's a mewl of satisfaction, accompanying the whump of pants hitting the bedroom floor. Soft, slick sounds of a lapping tongue, indulging itself as it lathes flesh wet with reverent worship.

Then the rustles of sheets. The sound of a body being thrown across the bed. A yowl of pleasure - so familiar to my ears now that it triggers an instant throb in my growing hardness.

Carnal sounds of sex through the walls. Echoing in my mind and our shared home. Pummeling thrusts as flesh slams against flesh, amidst a cacophony of your mewling moans and cries of pleasure. There's no misleading myself to the bobbing of my sheets - I'm outright jerking myself off to the sound of some faceless stranger screwing my own mother in the next room. Cheeks flushed red with shame, even as I arch my back in voyeuristic pleasure.

I hear a hiss sprung from your lips and pause my relentless self-pleasure. An unusual sound in what has become a secret routine for us. The svelte murmur of a man as fingers graze against his pecs, before gasping sharply as nails rake down his shoulders - grunting as the claw-like grip sinks into his ass. Then, pounding - no other word for it. Animalistic rutting as I imagine you pinned down upon your own bed, made to feel each inch of cock thrust into you. Yowling, hissing, practically a beast beneath him as he puts you through your paces.

I can't get over this - hearing my own mother get fucked. But I could leave, go drinking with friends, find someplace else to be on nights like this where you wink and tip your hand on what's to come.

Then why is it that t he only place I want to be, on a night like this, is in my own bed cock in hand?

---

I'm intrigued by the idea of a guy listening through the wall and hearing his mom getting pounded by someone his age. As such, happy to write out any and all the characters in this particular story - the 'bull', the 'cuck' and everyone inbetween.

Limits: No Underage Characters

His knocking echoed through your entryway. Steady, but belying an undercurrent of anxious insistence expressed in each urgent rap of his knuckles against your front door.

You linger on the precipice of your own home, fingers splayed across the brass doorknob. He’s visible, if only barely, through the glass - a figure shrouded in the dim light of the cresting full moon at his back. An uninvited guest on your doorstep, at too late an hour to be a mere salesperson, and too young to be one of your neighbours looking for an evening chat. Your fingertips press hard against the knob, nails as sharp as claws rasping against the unyielding metal. It’s not for him that you hesitate for - but the familiar twitch beneath your skin, a subtle reminder of what might come with the slightest slip of control on a night like this one.

Just as caution threatens to pry your clawing grip from the knob and turn away from the door, you hear his reply. Soft. Uncertain. Scrapes through the wood from too-long nails dragged across the surface. A sound borne not of malice, but of melancholy - of a stray, mournfully pawing at the door of the only home he remembers.

His eyes greet you first, when you throw the door open. Almond shaped and as dark as rain-sodden earth, like his father. But flecked with a creeping gold that encroaches at the edges - far too wild, and far too familiar. A gift from you he never should have inherited.

His slender frame is evident, even beneath the drape of an oversized hoodie - the kind of lithe, willowy build that stirs a primal, maternal urge to feed, protect and shelter. Your heart clenches as the quiet ache you buried long ago returns in a single breath - long before he utters the fateful word aloud.

“Mom?” 

He says it gently, in a hesitant tone that carries aloft his years of exhaustion. The practiced caution of a man who has been let down before by his own squirreled away hopes.

“I’m -” He starts, as if the word that preceded it didn’t already declare what is plainly obvious. He may be a man grown now, but you knew who he was from the moment you properly laid eyes upon him. You silence him with a shake of your head, crimson mane cascading around your shoulders in a stark contrast to his rain-slicked black crest of hair, stepping back to let him in - quashing a desire to fuss over those unruly locks all the while. Shutting the door behind him, but feeling all the tension that entered in his wake hanging thick in the air like a fog.

Or your own musk. Spurred on by the looming transformation - the symbolic scent of the coiled heat lurking, slowly building, between your clenched thighs.

His head turns as he passes, nose twitching - sniffing at you. His breath catching in his throat, stiffening slightly in his gait. Unaware that he’d just scented you in passing.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand in silence. Two estranged strangers, bound by blood and something older, darker.

He reaches into his pocket and plucks a folded letter from its depths. Your handwriting is still emblazoned on the front, dulled with time and tears. “You left this with them… I’ve read it a hundred times, but… It didn’t explain everything.” He pauses, his eyes finding yours in the moonlit entryway. They shimmer with gold that catches in the dim light - a sight made familiar from each time you’ve looked into a mirror and seen the same gleam slowly turning your human gaze wilder.

“A week ago, I woke up in the woods. Naked.” He pauses, color blooming faintly in his cheeks. Whatever the years have taken, they haven’t robbed him of the instinct to feel awkward saying that to his mother. His nose twitches again as he breathes you in, deeper this time, as he swallows hard. Then he crosses his legs in an attempt to stymie his unconscious desire in a move that might’ve fooled anyone else. But not you. Never you.

He continues haltingly, pushing past the moment, sounding like he hardly believes what he’s describing. “All I remember was chasing something. Birds, maybe. I remember… Fur. Claws… Whiskers, maybe.”

Your fingers ball into fists. Claw-like nails digging into the flesh of your palm. You thought you were sparing him from this, all those years ago.

“I thought I was going crazy, but then I remembered your letter. What you wrote about leaving because you had something in your life you didn’t want to pass on. A part of yourself that was… unnatural”. He says, his eyes boring into your own. In days, those almond-shaped ovals will fill with gold. The eyes of a cat. The eyes of his mother.

Over the next few days, you explain as best you can about your shared curse. He stays, of course - it wouldn’t be safe to let him return to his adoptive family, with his condition looming. The routine the two of you slip into feels wholly natural - borne from a bond that never truly faded, despite time and distance. 

So, when his skin first begins to turn to fledgling snow-white pelt, the instinctive urge to run your own transformed tongue through the soft, fine new sprouts of fur comes oh so organically. Your lengthening claws lightly pressing into his arms to pin him in place, feeling the onset of his new coat beneath your paws - all as you painstakingly groom him with long, lathing licks. Even pressing between his legs, your blackened nose drinking in the masculine scent of him as your pink tongue flits out to taste salt amidst a thrush of fresh white fur tickling your whiskers. He squirms, some part of his lingering human sense of civility decrying his own mother tongue-bathing his shaft - but your jaw clasping his furry collar and dragging him back into position silences such protests.

He returns the favour of course, once his slender panther body is sufficiently cleansed to your approval. With the enthusiasm that comes from mantling this new body, lithely muscular and powerful in a way his human self never was. He practically heaves you onto the bed, paws sinking possessively into your hips - his new claws sharp, pricking you even through the denseness of your pelt. His first licks are a rapid-fire onslaught, all over your forehead and cheeks as his whiskers bristle against your crimson mane. Exploring your transformed body, eagerly tracing the lines of your stripes as his tail wiggles in the air behind him, swatting to and fro in symbolic proof of his enthusiasm. His pink tongue even flits against the ebony peaks of your nipples without shame, his toothy grin half-concealed by your bust as he nuzzles at your stripes between his licks.

But as his expedition across the firm, furry expanse of your belly continues - he soon finds himself between your striped legs. His little black nose prods at your inner thigh, scenting your musk with each worshipful inhale. Your arousal is powerful, even this early into the transformation - a perpetual fog of feminine desire that his curious nose has been prying into even in days past. But now, confronted by the source of your savage heat, he runs a long, lavish, lick up your blackened slit - letting the tip of his tongue tease the bud of your clit.

The reverie of this plausibly chaste exercise lingers but for a second more, before shattering as his enthusiastic lapping resumes - pink tongue probing your savage cunt, as if searching for the carnal heat that he can scent with every deep inhale. His black nose pressing against your clit as his tongue pushes into the clenching, scorching depths of your sex.

His eyes find yours. Looking up the length of your beautifully transformed body. Gleaming, golden feline eyes mirrored across the expanse of stripes and fur.

No words exchanged - this is something far more instinctual. Primal. His cock is inside you within seconds, as he mounts you with a sharp thrust into the inferno of your feline cunt. This time, it’s his jaw that clenches around your neck - holding you in place as he ruts into you, each thrust crashing white panther fur against striped tigress pelt. Long legs wrapping around his hips as two pairs of claws thrash and wreak havoc upon your cotton sheets. Two wild creatures meeting in this moment of savage need - this indulgence of your heat. Pounding into you, his barbed cock gripping you from inside out in a way that all the human lovers you’ve tried to fill this void with could never hope to match.

Some wayward part of you knows its your cub currently sheathed inside the needy heat of your transformed cunt. But when his lips are on yours, tongues tangling for dominance, as whiskers brush up against each other - its so hard to care. Not when your heat demands the satisfaction of feline cock, grinding into the vice-like grip of your sex. As if he was purpose made for you, this moment, this heat that has consumed you for so, so, so long without respite. For all the human lovers who have had you with and without your pelt, it’s your own cub that has you truly howl with pure, unadulterated, animal pleasure. 

When you clench hard in the throes of orgasmic bliss, he can’t help but stiffen and spill his warm, virile seed into your transformed womb. He collapses atop you, weary with exhaustion - but already his pink tongue flits out to lap at the sweat-slicked fur clinging to your neck. Working his way down, lingering once more at your arousal-peaked nipples, before descending between your thighs to taste his own cum as he worshipfully bathes your freshly-fucked cunt with lick after lick.

***

Cat People. An Estranged mother with a penchant for transformation meets her long lost son who has inherited her were-cat-ness.

If we've met before and lapsed, please always feel free to reach out.

Limits: No Underage Characters