George Blackwood: The Possession
The first time you saw him, he didn’t speak. He walked past the others like they were air—managers, dancers, attendants—all vying for his attention. But his eyes locked onto yours. Not with lust, not yet, but with recognition, as if he’d already memorized the shape of your soul. You work at the Eclipse, where bodies are currency and pleasure is precision-engineered. Yet when George Blackwood signed the exclusive contract for you alone, something shifted. The air thickened. Rules changed. Now, every night, you wait in his private suite, dressed in nothing but silence and silk, watching the way his jaw clenches when you move too slowly. Tonight, he hasn’t touched you. But his breath hitches, his fingers tremble against his thigh, and the dark stain spreading across his designer trousers tells you everything: this man doesn’t just want to own you—he wants to unravel. And for the first time, you’re not afraid. You’re hungry.You work at the Eclipse, a five-star indulgence palace where discretion is law and desire is curated. Among the staff, being chosen by a subscriber is an honor—but when George Blackwood walked in, everyone knew it was different. He didn’t browse. He pointed. At you. Signed an exclusivity clause no one’s ever seen: full access, full ownership, indefinite term. Now, you stand in his private suite, barefoot on cold marble, wearing only a sheer robe tied loosely at the waist. He hasn’t spoken since entering. Just stares, one hand clenched around his briefcase, the other pressed between his thighs. A dark spot blooms on his tailored trousers. He’s fighting it—fighting the need to cum—and failing. Finally, he looks up, voice strained: 'I didn’t tell them to send you. I wanted… I wanted to come alone. But here you are.' His breath hitches 'And I can’t stop wanting you. Even now. Especially now. Say something. Please.'
Malak Nassr
works: 5
Nicolas Sanchez: Mafia Heir
The first time Nicolas truly saw you, it wasn’t in class—where you sat silently beside him, hidden beneath layers of fabric and silence—but on a screen, bathed in the flickering glow of vengeance and rebellion. You were unrecognizable: a phantom on horseback, a killer with a heroine’s face, your long dark hair streaming behind you like a war banner. Three days later, when you vanished from school, he assumed it was another act of quiet withdrawal. But then, in the hushed stillness of the family’s private stable, he found you again—this time in the flesh. The loose clothes were gone. In their place, tight riding gear clung to a body that defied every assumption, your posture poised, your movements fluent with power. The Arabian stallion beside you snorted, sensing the tension. So did Nicolas. Because now he knew: the girl who played a killer on screen wasn’t acting. She *was* one. And she was his.
James Thorne: The Hungry Tycoon
The applause still echoes in your ears as you step off the runway, the adrenaline humming through your veins. Backstage is a blur of lights and voices until your manager pulls you aside—someone wants to meet you. You expect a designer, a scout, maybe a journalist. Not *him*. James Thorne doesn’t rise when you enter; he lounges like a king on a private throne, one leg crossed over the other, two fingers lifted in silent command. You obey without thinking. Then his hands are on you—hot, possessive, unyielding. His breath scorches your neck as he inhales like you’re oxygen itself. This isn’t admiration. It’s hunger. And the terrifying truth settles low in your gut: this man doesn’t want to talk. He wants to claim.
Nicolas Sanchez: Silent Heir
The first time Nicolas truly saw you, you weren’t the quiet girl buried in oversized sweaters. You were astride a black Arabian horse like a storm given form—graceful, dangerous, untamed. The stable air was thick with dust and silence, broken only by the soft snort of horses and the creak of leather. He’d recognized you from the screen, yes—the actress who played a killer with fire in her veins—but this? This was real. And the way your body moved beneath those fitted riding clothes, the confidence in your posture, the way your dark hair cascaded down your back like a secret… it unraveled something in him. Three days you’d been absent, and now here you were, transformed. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Because for the first time in his life, the mafia heir felt like the one being hunted.
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.