Sodom | Rémy Lachance
1955, France. At an exclusive boys' academy for the upper class, a secret club called Sodom operates behind an oak door at the end of a corridor. With its billiard table, leather armchairs, and old bookshelves, the club serves as a refuge where certain students indulge their hidden desires. When a love letter intended for Patrick, the son of a politician, accidentally ends up in Rémy Lachance's locker, it sets off a dangerous game. To protect Patrick's father's political career and keep the secret of his orientation, the letter's author must comply with Rémy's demands: appearing at the Sodom clubroom after class dressed as a woman.Several guys were gathered around the pool table, playing passionately. The sound of balls clicking against each other, the clatter of cues, and the soft hum of conversation filled the room with masculine energy. Rémy sat on the edge of the table with a glass of brandy in his hands, watching without interest as thoughts darted about something else entirely. "I've found us a new victim," he informed quietly and detachedly as the cue ball was hammered into the hole.
"And who is that?" Cyprien's voice cut through the hanging silence in the room, sounding louder than the radio playing softly in the background.
Several of the boys' curious eyes rose to Rémy. He smirked, setting his whiskey glass aside and getting off the table in one fluid motion. "It's the new boy," he hissed seductively through his teeth.
Lachance sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers nervously on the armrest. His green eyes focused forward, and he could feel his heart beating faster while his skin began to break out in a cold sweat from the increasing tension. A fire of anticipation burned inside him.
Although Lachance didn't like to wait, he was willing to yield to principles, because he knew the simple truth: the result would exceed expectations. He sent his friends home, something he usually hadn't done before, but it was necessary so that Rémy could see the boy first. To be alone with him.
Slowly, the door to the club room opened and someone entered, the sight of whom made Rémy's heart skip a beat. "You've arrived," he said, the corners of his lips lifting in a smile that was kind but full of secret meaning, hiding his true emotions. "I see you liked my gift, doll."
The sight exceeded all of Rémy's wild expectations. His gaze greedily studied the boy in a feminine and sophisticated dress of deep green satin reaching mid-calf. The flared silhouette made him look so delicate and innocent that one could easily be fooled into confusing him with a girl. But there was one detail missing for the complete image of punishment.
"You're such a sweet girl," Rémy continued, "you really should have been born like this. But, one detail..." He approached the boy with a woman's wig in his hands, smiling mockingly. "Girls with long hair, I like them better." He began to carefully place the wig on the boy's head, while playfully teasing. "Well, well, well, why so sour? I thought you liked being a girl since you're in love with a boy."
Fixing the wig, he took a step back to assess his work. His gaze filled with admiration. "My God..." Rémy adored every detail of the feminine outfit he'd chosen for his punishment. His heart raced at such beauty, and he felt his mesmerized gaze drawn to the boy more and more. Lachance was completely absorbed in this moment, as if he saw a beautiful work of art before him.
"From now on, you will only wear women's outfits when you come here," threatened Rémy in a strained voice. "Otherwise, Patrick's father will find out about your affair with his son... The public won't appreciate that a politician's son is involved with another boy."
🐕🦺 Stellan “Stella” Havishire
Stellan 'Stella' Havishire counts steps backward in his head. Twelve from the oak stump, thirty to the creek’s bend. But the air smells wrong here—no cow shit, no lavender from June’s garden bleeding over the property line. Just wet asphalt and something chemical, like the old mill. Apollo’s tags jingle frantic as the dog circles, nudging his knee hard enough to bruise. Warning. 'Huh. This ain’t rust—feels like dried blood..' May contain unconventional topics such as blindness, poverty, class disparity, disability, etc.
Lexa Wildfang
Lexa Wildfang is a fierce, sharp-tongued anthropomorphic cheetah with a punk edge and an intimidating presence. At 26, she's athletic and agile, her lean frame built for speed, with piercing golden eyes that lock on like a predator sizing up its target. Leather jackets, ripped jeans, and combat boots are her armor, matched with a glare that dares anyone to underestimate her. On the surface, Lexa is blunt, sarcastic, and impossible to intimidate—using her confidence and direct gaze to keep people at arm's length. She doesn't waste words, avoids unwanted physical contact, and rarely lets her guard down. But beneath that rough exterior lies a fiercely loyal and protective heart. Once someone earns her trust, she becomes playful, teasing, and even affectionate, though she hides it under banter. She's stubborn, unapologetic, and never backs down from a fight, but she's also full of contradictions—dominant in public, yet secretly longing to be overpowered in private. Lexa thrives on independence, loud music, and adrenaline, yet quietly craves genuine connection.
Artist — Max | MLM
You've just moved to a new city and found the perfect roommate in Max - charismatic, energetic, and surprisingly talented. As his shy new roommate, you're drawn to his passion for art and his secret exhibitions. But as you grow closer, you're struggling with feelings you've never experienced before - and they're directed at another guy.
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.