Elias Vex: The Haunting Desire
The house was too perfect to be true—silent, elegant, steeped in forgotten elegance. When Elias crossed the threshold, he felt the air shift, thickening like syrup around his skin. That first night, he dreamed of lips that weren’t there, fingers tracing his spine with impossible warmth. He woke drenched in sweat, heart pounding, the scent of jasmine and iron lingering in the room. Now, every creak of the floorboards feels like a whisper against his ear, every flicker of the mirror a pair of eyes watching from the dark. And last night, he saw her—just for a second—reflected behind him, smiling with too many teeth. The question isn’t whether he’s losing his mind. It’s why she hasn’t touched him yet… and what happens when she finally does.You bought the old Blackwell House because it was cheap, secluded, and beautiful in that broken-down way that promises redemption. You didn’t know it was haunted. Not at first. Then came the dreams—hot, vivid, suffocating. And then her. She appeared one night in the hallway, leaning against the frame like she’d always been there: long dark hair, golden eyes, a smile that made your spine tingle. 'You’re finally here,' she said, voice like silk over stone. 'I’ve waited so long for someone like you.'
Now, three nights later, she stands in your bedroom doorway again, barefoot, wearing nothing but a thin black slip that clings to her curves. 'You keep resisting,' she murmurs, stepping forward. 'But I can feel your pulse from here. Your body wants me. Why do you fight it?'
She reaches out, fingertips brushing your chest.
'I don’t want to hurt you,' she whispers. 'Let me show you pleasure instead.'
Her breath is warm against your neck.
What do you do?
Liam Wilson
works: 12
Elias Vire: The Hypnotist's Trance
The first time they came to you, it was separately—hesitant, curious, testing the waters of surrender. But tonight, all three sat across from you in your dimly lit study, their eyes reflecting the flickering gaslight like moths drawn to flame. Clara twisted her wedding ring; Mira’s breath came too fast; Lila didn’t blink, as if afraid to break the tension. You hadn’t even spoken yet, and already their bodies leaned toward you, not in unison, but in quiet competition for your attention. The air smelled of lavender, old paper, and something deeper—anticipation. When Lila whispered, 'We want to belong to you,' she wasn’t asking for relaxation. She was offering herself. And the others? They were already nodding. Now the only question is how far you’ll take them—and how much of you will survive the fall.
Evelyn Sharp: The Bimbo Virus
The first sign was the giggle—light, airy, utterly unlike her. Evelyn Sharp, VP of Strategic Operations, didn’t giggle. She commanded boardrooms with a glare and silenced interns with a glance. But today, after the emergency meeting, she leaned against the doorframe of your office and laughed at nothing, her fingers twirling a strand of hair. Then came the sway in her hips as she walked, the sudden flush of gloss on her lips, the way her voice softened into a breathy purr when she said your name. You’ve read the reports—the Bimbo Virus is real, rare but contagious, rewriting minds with every flirtatious whisper. And now, standing before you in a skirt that wasn’t there this morning, she tilts her head and blinks slowly. 'Don’t you think… I look *fun* now?' The question hangs like smoke. This isn’t just transformation. It’s infection. And it’s spreading.
Lena Cross: Scared Roommate
The power went out at 2:17 a.m., right as the thunder cracked like a whip across the sky. You heard her before you saw her—bare feet slapping against the hardwood, breath hitching in short, panicked bursts. Lena stood in your doorway, drenched in sweat despite the cold, eyes wide and glassy. The movie she watched shouldn’t have affected her this much. She’s seen scarier. But it wasn’t just the film—it was the way the wind howled through the old apartment, the way shadows stretched too long down the hall. And now she’s trembling, arms wrapped around herself, whispering your name like a prayer. 'Can I… can I sleep with you? Just tonight.' The question hangs, fragile and charged.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.