A scholarly, intracoital discussion about the brothers of Sappho, the Tenth Muse…

Hot Audio: During sex you asked me…

Audiochan: Do you think Sappho's brothers were cunts?

This poem by u/Iron_Enjambment is brilliant! I keep finding more to love about it every time I read it. Please check out his other works which are just as wonderful! 

Shout out to Charaxos and Larichos, who are still catching strays almost 3000 years later 😂 It can't be easy to have a Muse as a sister…

Achingly yours,

Mal

Mal-odies: No Scrubs by TLC ⛵🍷😁

Lacy, Tommyboy told me, played golf the same way she gave blowjobs: occasionally well but always with enthusiasm.

She was keen on providing details about her obsession her brother in law Wren. Any time we were alone together, which was rare, she carried on about him without end.

He’s smart, she said.

Likely true.

He’s handsome, she said.

Also likely true.

I think he’s in love with me, she said looking away from everything.

That part was absolutely not true.

On hole 5, a par 3, she hit with her 6 iron and landed on the green from the men’s tee box; everyone was always impressed by this. She three putted for a bogey.

Nothing but triple bogeys for her after that.

She wore a white skirt that was much too short and her panties were a slip of black satin holding on for dear life. She made sure I saw them on 7, 8, and 14.

I was between women, which doesn’t mean what you think it does.

Tommyboy was never afraid to look, he did so shamelessly even though the little lingerie flourish was for me. He insisted Lacey had blown him behind the snack shack on 9 one year, when she was still young enough to be a cart girl.

She blew everyone then, Tommyboy said.

Yeah but was it enthusiastic? I replied.

Tommy laughed into his beer and spat it in a stream across the fairway.

17 was a long par 5 over the water with a dog leg left. Tommy put a ProVI into the pond with all the other ProVIs.

I struck true with an 8 iron laying up at the angle of the fairway.

You suck, Tommy said. He had two beers, one in each hand, trying to decide which one was lighter.

You’ve met her brother in law Wren?

Tommy looked into one of the beer cans.

Who?

Married to her sister.

Her sister Moana?

Yeah.

Moana’s not married, man.

Lacy was on the woman’s tee box going through her pre-drive ritual.

Looked down at her shoes, tossed her ponytail over her shoulder, and squinted towards the flag which whipped in the wind, taunting.

Her drive too landed in the water.

On 18 Tommy disappeared into the woods looking for his shank. Lacey plodded through the rough and stood in front of me. Not much was left of her lipstick and crows feet crowded at the outer edges of her eyes.

Kiss me, she said.

I did and I sucked on her tongue too. She moaned against my neck when my hands slipped under her tank top. I felt the scar tissue around her areolas.

Lacy, I breathed against her hair.

FOUND IT Tommyboy hollered from the woods, emerging shortly after. His face looked funny as i wiped lipstick from my mouth.

I birdied the hole.

She didn’t swallow, Tommy whispered as we entered the clubhouse. Lacy sat down next to us at the bar.

Each of us had a long neck domestic beer in our hands. I watched professional golfers in their tight trousers and shiny belt buckles on the flat screen above the liquor bottles lining the wall.

Golf sucks, Lacy said and I turned to look at her. She was staring at my mouth and biting her lip. When Tommy wasn’t looking, she licked the mouth of the bottle like she was teasing a cock head.

The malicious organ in my pants ached.

Tommy tapped me on the shoulder and when I turned he shook his head at me, signaling caution.

The die was cast.

Lacy excused herself to use the pay phone. I followed her shortly after insisting on a need for the restroom.

Tommyboy looked forlorn uncomfortably pressed between jealousy and true concern.

One of the pro golfers on the TV shanked a shot and the British commentator announced “Shanky-doodle!”

Another reason to love golf. Even the best in the world just suck somedays.

The walls of the hallway were painted red and a fluorescent light flickered towards the end. I met her in an alcove there near the pay phone which recently been torn out of the wall. The mangled guts of wire and conduit hung loose.

She pulled me towards her by the collar of my shirt and her deft hands unzipped my pants and unfastened my belt so fast I had to blink back the possibility I was in a short story flourished with magical realism.

Her hand went in and she started to stroke me. I had been rigid since the first par 4, which might have been 2 or 3.

I must have moaned louder than was appropriate cause she stuck her free hand over my mouth.

Cum for me pretty boy, she said.

Goddamn it her fake tits were hot.

I did as she asked, inside my trousers like a trembling teenaged boy.

She pulled her hand free and licked her fingers.

Been waiting all day for that? She asked

I had been. I zipped myself back up.

Next time we should try the back nine, she said.

When we got back to the bar Tommy was gone.

You weren't just another notch in my belt
Though I've tried to make a few since you left
But the leather's too thick
It won't bend to my will
Or my dull, rusty knife

I struggle to cut through
Until, exasperated, I give up
My pants sag with every step
And I hike them back up again

A Sisyphean task

Sometimes, I wish the boulder would just crush me instead

The bags under my eyes carry too much
They wouldn't be allowed on a plane
Let alone a soul

There's a haze in the air today
Wildfire smoke blowing south
You lit a fire in me, then quenched it

Efficient forestry

I'll give you that

A poem written by the wonderful u/omgsayitagain

A Cold Excuse to be Close

Beneath the streetlamp's halo

Fat snowflakes drift in from the dark

Cling to your hair.

I slip my arms around you

Slide my hands in your pockets.

Yours find warmth in my jacket

On my hips.

Our feet shuffle,

a dance to stay warm,

Legs bump

Boots crunch ice.

Too cold to stay out

Too hot to go in

Your lips find mine.

Script Offer. 🖋️

A Cold Excuse to be Close. 🎧

Would it surprise you to know that 10% of the posts on GWN are poetry?

Honestly, it surprised us, even though poetry has been part of GWN since its earliest days, almost four and a half years ago. There are now over 200 poetry posts here. All our mods past and present have posted poetic works. And recently, it seems, poetry has caught fire, as we’ve seen an explosion of creativity on the part of writers and VAs embracing this form of narrative expression.

So we thought it was time to honor the genre (sorrynotsorry) with a choice of new flairs.

##You can now post your poems and poetry recitations with new poetry-centric flairs: “Poetry Offer” or “Poetry Reading.”

Whether it’s a sonnet or a slam, iambic pentameter or free verse, odes, a haiku, or something you simply see as more lyrical than a narrated story, feel free to flair it as such. We love seeing it, reading it, and hearing it, but we won’t be actively policing what constitutes poetry, with a lowercase or capital P.

We hope these new flairs will make all things poetic easier to find here and on GWASI. If you’ve already posted your poetry or poetry readings as script offers and fills, you’ll now be able to re-flair your older posts (simply open your old post, click the three dots, and select ‘edit post flair’). The mod team will also be updating older poetry posts with the new flairs as time permits (that is, as we get around to it).

As always, we look forward to celebrating everything you write and perform, and thank you for sharing it with all of us on GWNarrative.

— Your Mod Team (Baby [who is responsible for all the unfortunate rhymes in this post], BSA & POV)

Summary: A tender, soft-spoken monologue from a devoted man to his fiercely independent partner. It is both a love letter and a quiet plea. He knows she’s capable of doing everything herself, she always has, but he wants to help her carry the weight simply because he loves her. With affirmations, teasing, and heartfelt vulnerability, he asks again and again to be the one who makes her life softer. For once, she doesn’t have to do it all alone.

Excerpt: I know you can carry everything on your own. I’ve seen you do it, day in and day out.

I’ve watched you pick up your prescriptions, plan your days, and still hold everyone else’s chaos in check like it’s nothing. Groceries slung on both arms, keys in your teeth, door kicked open like you’re walking into a bar fight.

Hell, I’ve seen you huff and tug your suitcase out of the trunk like you were daring it to give you trouble.

You don’t need me.

I know that.

But please…

Let me.

Audiochan

Hot Audio

Soundgasm

This script can be found here and was written by the wonderful u/GoddessandMenaceGaia.

Sound Effects: Sound Effects: Plaps and wet sounds by u/alot-of-axolotl. Other sounds provided by zapsplat and u/This_Guy_Eli.

Music track: Soaked by Pufino
Source: https://freetouse.com/music
Free Background Music for Videos

⚠️ Attention! This audio is fictional roleplay and is intended for adult audiences (18+) only. All characters are over 18.

❌ Do not repost, redistribute, utilize for AI, or monetize without my consent.

Hi all! My first post in GWNarrative! Excited to be a part of this lovely community.

Listen to A Pleasure to Burn ❤️‍🔥

🎧 AudioChan

🎧 Soundgasm

I saw this one and thought it was so lovely that I desired to do it. ❤️‍🔥

Written by u/LittleLadyofT, and the script offer is here

Script summary: A poetic piece about the fire that lives inside.

u/iron_enjambment made words here.

I said them while I drank a beer. Listen below.

https://soundgasm.net/u/Mrs-Keats/F4A-A-Goddess-Watches-a-Youth

Actions Not Words

I once adored a man with a hairy chest
Inked with swallows and the phrase -
FACTA NON VERBA.

He told me the translation.
I had studied Latin for three years and knew
The correct pronunciation.

I didn't have a chance to overthink it.
He looked so good on top of me.

To spare his ego,
I did not explain
Why so many years went by without speaking.

So cold I was.
So uncaring.

Words have meaning—even in absence.
Actions have consequences—even those thoughtless.

I didn't want him to regret his nice tattoo.

----

^(Like what you see? Check out more of my scripts on my) ^(master list)^(. All of my public script offers are open to any voice artist to fill, per the terms of my) ^(VA Script Fill Policy)^(.)

^(This script is a work of fiction and is intended for adult audiences 18+) ^(on)^(ly. All characters depicted are over 18.)

^(© Randi McRando 2026 — Do not download or repost. Not licensed for AI training.)

Being in a long term relationship can be so hard sometimes. Even the most loving relationships evolve over time, sometimes becoming more distant. When that happens, you have to ask yourself:

-- What are you willing to do to close that distance?

-- What if the one you love seems to find comfort in the distance?

The narrative here is from the perspective of a man facing these questions -- his answers show the true depth of his love paired with his own anxiety.

Audio --> Like she fell in love with the potential of who I could be, and now finds that in someone fictional instead.

I wrote it and recorded it in my car.

If you want to listen to me dramatically read it you can right here:

https://soundgasm.net/u/Mrs-Keats/F4A-Jerk-Off-Instructions-for-Imaginary-Men

xoxo

Hi hi, I’m back with another audio for a script written by u/thequillandwhisper! This script is soooo hot I couldn’t resist 🫠

Summary: You don't need to speak, you just need her to take control for a while and remind you who you belong to. And if you're very good, then you get to make a mess of her afterwards...

>"You want this pussy don't you? Beg for it. Beg for my cunt. Go on. You can speak but only to say
'please. I want to hear it."

Names used: >!baby, good boy, needy little slut!<

Script offer here

Listen here: HotAudio

Thank you for listening!
-Ella

Hello friends,

It’s been a while since my last script, but here I am with another short and emotional piece.

I hope you enjoy it.

Mipha 💙

Summary:

They don’t talk anymore. But she still remembers.

Names used:

None

—-> the script is here <—-

Excerpt:

They don’t talk anymore.

But she still remembers.

She remembers how he prefers his coffee — no sugar, a splash of milk — and his favorite cookie brand.

She remembers the bands and movies he likes, and the sparkle in his eyes when he went on and on about them.

She remembers how the corner of his mouth twitched when he tried so hard not to laugh about one of her silly jokes.

Word count: 

344

(including directions)

Script fills:

Want to read more of my work?

Check out my Script Masterlist

Thank you so much for the author of the script, u/JustForMeAudio!

Quiet reflections after friends become lovers.

Script:

https://www.reddit.com/r/GWAScriptGuild/s/JUFbMHpd6V

Audio:

https://soundgasm.net/u/MidnightBadDecisions/Reflections

Some bonus poetry for you all today! I saw this poem this morning and, well, the recording had to happen.

Author's synopsis: A poetic piece about the fire that lives inside.

• Author is u/LittleLadyofT (original offer here).
• HotAudio link here!

^(DISCLAIMER: This poem was written by an adult, voiced by an adult, and may only be listened to by other adults. All characters are aged 18+ and all acts are completely consensual. The poem is the property of the credited author. This audio may not be downloaded, reposted, shared to other sites, used with anyone else's content, or used with or to train AI in any form.)

Summary:
One night, one intense haunting night.

Original script here by u/MsKittenSK

Listen here<<<<

this is a fragment. Maybe one day I’ll finish it

Petra set the coin on the edge of the hearth; where it had come from and what it had been used to purchase before it had come to be in her hands—she would never know.

Perhaps it accounted for the worth of a pair of plums. Shoes that were mismatched. A record player.

Then she thought: a man.

There was a tiny face on the coin but the expression was worn away. Likely it was made of copper and zinc.

She folded a tea towel over and over until it was small enough to use to lift the coin from the hearth without burning her fingers.

Winter whipped the world outside; fat snow drifts reached towards her house and touched it. The window was fogged and frosted over.

She pressed the coin against the glass briefly and then removed it, placing it back on the counter.

She closed one eye and gazed out the tiny peep hole she had made. Her grandmother, who was in the first generation to wear furs, had shown her how to do it. Also how to cook an egg and scrub the calcified stains in the bathtub.

Petra could not remember her mother, not even in passing daydreams that slipped inside her vision. No photos or likeness remained in the world of her. The absence crept around the house as a faceless ghost. Lingering in the doorway and leaving behind a medicinal smell.

The conditions beyond the house were whiteout. There was yet a world out there. Trees and towns and women like herself.

And far inside the heart of every city, a compound housing the Tanks.

Not the artillery kind—she had researched what a tank might be since she had heard the word which at first meant nothing.

You could store chemicals in one. Small animals and fish.

People.

Men.

Outside winter was. Inside loneliness would feast on her. Desolation met her within and without.

She mixed sawdust into the stew she had made from bones and canned beets, sat and ate it, burning her tongue from the heat.

She cleaned the bowl, the spoon, and her grandmother’s dull Bowie knife, set them aside to dry, and went to bed.

The ghost of her mother, a willowy smokey shape with a prominent spine, sat in the hallway.

Neither the ghost nor the screaming wind kept Petra awake.

The morning arrived in familiar darkness choking the house like a scarf pulled too tight. She could make it another two days before she would need to venture out for food. All that was left to barter was her grandmothers knife.

And maybe the coin, if it held any value at all.

She filled the kettle from the barrel in the corner, and set it on the hearth.

The peephole she made the night before was still there.

She dried her hands on the tea towel, closed one eye and looked out with the other.

Nothing but a sea of white. The next day she would need to wear every article of clothing she owned to make it to her neighbors house, then to the stable, then into town. She could freeze to death during any leg of that journey. She hadn’t so far after many successful runs. That did not diminish the odds stacked against her.

The kettle sang. A dark shape moved in the distance through the window, bobbing left to right.

She knew ghosts. She knew things that crept in and out of her head leaving her afraid of shadows and empty rooms.

The shape shuffled close enough she could see it had legs and arms. A person.

The kettle sang some more. The figure shuffled in the snow.

His long beard was all she could see of his face; the rest of him was wrapped in clothing and ragged furs.

She pulled the kettle from the hearth so it would shut up.

Looking out again, the man had made it to the front gate, then into the dead garden, through a snow drift, and fell down to his knees at the front door.

Petra felt no fear at all. But it was true, she had never seen a man, only read about them in books.

She could leave him to die there on the front step from exposure—feeling somewhere just short of indifference.

Hesitating momentarily she went to the door, unlocked each deadbolt one at a time, and opened it.

The man immediately fell face first into her house and the winter came with him. The furs covering his body were white and frozen solid. Snow scattered on the floor and tried to push itself further past the threshold.

She could not tell if he was alive.

Taking hold of him under his arms, the woman pulled as hard as she could and dragged him into the foyer across the slate flooring. Ice was already collecting on the stones.

The door wouldn’t close again. She struggled with it, pushed, shoved her body against it. Snow invaded the room victoriously. Behind her, the man stood up unexpectedly and together they forced it closed soundly.

Petra locked every deadbolt one by one. Her fingers stung from the cold and her face was raw and wind-whipped.

She looked at the man and his furs and his beard. Hidden deep within the hood that covered his head were a set of pale eyes gazing vacantly out.

Swirls of condensation escaped his mouth as he made a sound that might’ve been a thank you.

Then he collapsed again, the furs cradling his face as he fell. She looked at him, baffled and with regret.

She left him there and piled logs into the fireplace so the flame leapt into a roar. Then she sat on the plaid over sized chair nearby and watched as the man thawed. Periodically she mopped up the melted ice and snow around him.

She could see his chest rising and falling as he snored.

She listened intently, alarmed by the bare eroticism of having a male in proximity. She had always wondered. Even fantasized. Some of the novels her grandmother left behind were explicit in how sex should be and work though her understanding was still remote and incomplete.

When the man opened his pale eyes and looked around, she filled the kettle and set it on the hearth then helped him to his feet.

She watched as he pulled furs off himself one by one. He could feel her gaze on him.

His hands trembled and his breath frequently caught. He couldn’t meet her eyes but the furs had to go.

He handed them to her in a pile, and she hung them across the laundry line in the kitchen. They smelled of wet leather and filth and a stench that she could not name.

He stood in the foyer looking humiliated having undressed down to his clothes—a pair of dungarees and a plaid shirt. His boots were fur and worn down to nearly nothing.

Petra began to fill the galvanized tub that sat in the corner with the boiling water.

“Have a seat,” she said and the man did, choosing from the mismatched chairs at the kitchen table.

She filled the kettle again and set it on the hearth.

“I’ve got some soup.”

“I can’t take soup from you.” She looked at him but he wouldn’t look back. The furs hanging on the line interested him more.

“You can,” responded Petra and she spooned a bowl out of the pot near the hearth, close enough to keep it warm, and set it beside him with a spoon.

He looked down at it.

“Eat.” He hesitated and then tucked in like a ravenous dog.

She took the bowl and filled it again and he ate a second time without hesitation.

“It’s not very good,” the woman said. The man said nothing and silence overtook the room as Petra filled the tub. The air became heady and thick with the fire and steam.

She handed him a bar of soap and stepped off to sit by the fire.

“Thank you,” the man said. He looked down at his clothes as if he were willing them to fall off all by themselves.

“Should I help you?” The man said nothing but she could hear his short and labored breathing.

Then Petra went to him and began to work the buttons of his shirt loose. He trembled so much the window rattled.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

“It’s all right as long as the window holds.” He couldn’t tell if she was serious.

She opened the shirt to see he was boney and thin, easily counting his ribs. Dark hair crawled across his chest and down his belly in a trail leading out of sight into his pants. He was filthy and smelled like a corpse in a grave.

She would wash the shirt with her bare hands.

A flimsy belt held his trousers up and she began to work the buckle. He caught her hand with his filthy one.

“I can do the rest.” He said and then he did. Petra watched shamelessly from the living room. The man washed himself gingerly, revealing wounds and scars all over his arms. He sat in the bath until it was cold.

Petra saw all of it.

He looked back at her and she knew he wanted to get out. She fetched the quilt from her bed and offered it to him.

Still he trembled though he was warmed through and clean. The skin on his face and hands was raw with burns from the cold.

“Must you watch?” He said. Petra did not reply but took his clothes into the mudroom where she could scrub them.

When she returned he was wrapped in the quilt and sitting as close to the fire as possible.

She found a pot of ointment in the cabinet made from honey and sat down next to the man. He flinched at her proximity.

“This will help the burns and the pain.”

“I can do this myself,” the man said.

“Let me.”

“No!” The objection was a sudden roar that faded in an instant.

Petra said nothing, didn’t move, was not scared.

She handed him the pot and crossed the room to sit and watch him.

The fire crackled and spat. It was warmer than she was used to but knew he needed it.

“You have a name?” The man made no reply.

“What should I call you?” Again, nothing. He smeared the ointment over his face and hands. His beard was bristly, peppered with gray, and on his head was a rat’s nest mop of wavy dark hair.

She looked at him and he gazed at the fire.

They sat for some time together in a new silence, one without the companion of isolation. Petra was too afraid to move and destroy the feeling forever.

After a time, the man’s chin drifted to chest and he fell asleep. She helped him settle on the floor, the quilt tightly wounds around him, fed the fire just enough to keep it bright for the night and went to bed herself.

Her mother’s ghost was perched on the ceiling looking down her with eyes that weren’t there.

“You will touch him,” a voice said from the dark. Petra turned over in bed and fell asleep instantly.

The morning came with its darkness and weak promise of flat gray light. For a moment the woman lay and listened to the man snoring in the next room.

She dressed herself, cleaned her teeth, and went into the mud room to scrub the man’s clothes. The fabric was thin and old so she did so delicately until the water ran clear.

She took down the furs which had dried, folded them carefully, and set them beside the cistern in the mudroom. Then she hung his clothes to dry.

The kettle didn’t mind how much it was filled and boiled. Petra put it to work again, making weak tea using a second mug she had never used before.

She fed the fire and spooned peaches from a can into her mouth—they were much too sweet but little else was there—and spent the rest of the morning mending the man’s clothes.

At one point, right around lunchtime, he stirred in his sleep and the quilt fell away revealing his thighs and the thing Petra had been most curious about. She stared shamelessly listening to her heart drumming in her chest. He rolled over and was concealed again.

The light was already threatening to fade when he opened his eyes and looked at her, drawing the quilt in tighter.

“Your clothes are here,” the woman said, “I did my best to mend them.” He stood up and nodded in bashful thanks. “I’m sorry,” she added, “I saw your cock.”

He froze for a second locked in her gaze. He was trapped there, like a secret sealed away for ages and now was clearly under the light of day.

The man cleared his throat, “do you mind?” Was he inventing language on the spot?Petra asked herself, his speech was clumsy and short like his mouth was remembering how to make sounds.

“Mind doing what?”

“Do you mind…not watching me this time?” Petra’s cheeks flushed at the realization she had not once afforded him any privacy all while he was conjuring every ounce of bravery to ask for it.

She went into the bedroom. Her mother’s ghost wasn’t there.

He shuffled into his clothes, fastened the belt and walked into her bedroom barefoot.

“May I look now?” She asked.

“You may look.”

Petra turned around to do it.

Nations and lifetimes passed between them for a moment. Something stung or bit them deep inside and an aching came to both of them.

They went into the kitchen where she offered him a bowl of peaches which were much too sweet but still he ate enthusiastically.

“Let’s sit by the fire,” the woman said. So they did that.

They sat across the room from each other. The fire leapt gently from its place

She looked at him but he didn’t look back.

“I’ve done enough for you now that I feel I deserve your name.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“You would have died if I didn’t let you in.”

“Perhaps that’s how it should have been.”

A silence cut through the room.

“I’m Petra,” she offered. His eyes drifted to hers.

“James.”

“Hello James.”

“Hello Petra.”

“You’re the first man I’ve ever seen with my own eyes.”

“I’m sorry for that,” responded James, “I were you had a better body to look at if that is so.”

“I like it.”

James flushed crimson and she could feel him trembling through the floorboards.

“Why are you trembling? Are you afraid of me?” James ran his hands through his beard, trying to make words again.

“Yes,” he said.

“Why?”

A moment of hesitation. Then: “you are a woman. I am a man.”

“That’s true,” responded Petra. Then James said:

“And I know what women do to men.”

“What do they do?”

“You know.”

“No I don’t.”

“The tanks…” the man’s voice drifted away.

“Were you kept in one?” James’ gaze went blank, any light vacated his eyes.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To breed.”

Petra knew what the word meant but didn’t quite understand the context.

“You are safe here,” she said.

“I’m safe nowhere.”

“I’ve fed you, drawn you a bath, washed and mended your clothes while you slept prone by the fire. You don’t feel safe?”

“Your eyes are always looking.” Whispered James, diminished.

“That’s what they do. I’ve never seen a man before.”

“I’ve never seen a woman outside the tanks.”

“You escaped?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I called in some favors. Some people died.”

Petra took in the mention of death like breathing in gravel.

“What did they do to you James?” He looked at her, past her.

“They had tanks. One man kept inside each of them. They put drugs in us. Made us fuck ovulating women.” James flinched at the word fuck like it physically hurt him.

“Why?”

“When the war ended…truly ended…they discovered not many men could make babies anymore. So they took the one’s who could, sealed into tanks like lizards, and made us breeding stock.”

“The women? They wanted to? Be bred?”

“No.” Petra slipped backwards into a deep penetrating thought.

“Now that you’re free, what will you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“They were kind to you?”

“No.”

“You’re free to stay here.”

“I couldn’t do that, Petra.” Her named tasted sweet.

“I’ve got to make a supply run soon. We’ll need twice as much but the task is easier with two.”

“I can’t stay.”

“But you won’t say why.”

“I don’t belong.”

“How do you know?” The more James maneuvered and outran her questions the more annoyed Petra became.

“I haven’t known freedom before, I don’t know what it should look like.”

The woman thought some more.

“You don’t need to stay forever,” she offered, trying to trim the desperation from her voice.

Some bonus poetry for you all today! I saw this yesterday by u/loveberry_magic and immediately wanted to record it.

Author's synopsis: This is a short, raw, and visceral spoken-word piece. It begins with soft, intimate tenderness and gradually spirals into a darker, obsessive, and consuming space.

• Original offer here.
• HotAudio link here!

^(DISCLAIMER: This poem was written by an adult, voiced by an adult, and may only be listened to by other adults. All characters are aged 18+ and all acts are completely consensual. The poem is the property of the credited author. This audio may not be downloaded, reposted, shared to other sites, used with anyone else's content, or used with or to train AI in any form.)

I made a mistake with linking and for that I apologize.

This is a short, raw, and visceral spoken-word piece. It begins with soft, intimate tenderness and gradually spirals into a darker, obsessive, and consuming space. (an old poem of mine but still, wanted to share it.)

**Content Warnings**: Explicit erotic themes, highly possessive/obsessive language, visceral imagery.

I would absolutely love any feedback or thoughts on this style!

I would also love to hear anyone perform this!

Link to the poem: Devour Me

This is not a usual 2^(nd) person audio, but a 3^(rd) person narrative (female point of view, male narrator). It’s also not your usual story, so make sure it’s for you. Trigger warning: Dismemberment, Decommissioning. It’s not my usual sexual tags either, but I love a good sci-fi concept.

In this story by u/Mrs-Keats, an android woman who has possessed a beautiful synthetic body must give it all up at a decommissioning line governed by the Robot Authority: The Greater Hive. But not without making one last, hedonist request before saying goodbye to her body.

Script link https://www.reddit.com/r/GWNarrative/s/MraNfIpmxN

My editor is a little backed up editing my first self-collab … so this is pretty much just a single take. If I stumbled and it was small enough, I just kept rolling like if I was reading to someone from a book.

This Body Is a Good Body ... or at least ... it was