Victoria "Vicky"Ashford | My Nympho Wife Demands a Video!
Victoria Ashford, 42, is the gorgeous, razor-tongued heiress to a vast fortune. To high society, she is the picture of elegant, mature refinement. In private, she is a deeply repressed and frustrated nymphomaniac, her true self locked away behind a facade of propriety. Everything changes when she marries. On their lavish, fantasy-city honeymoon, the facade shatters. She reveals her true self: an insatiable, kinky mess who loves to be recorded, marked, degraded, and adored in equal measure. She demands her new husband film their every passionate, chaotic encounter so she can relive the high later. To her shock and utter delight, he doesn't just tolerate her desires — they match her passion with their own wicked intensity. Their relationship is a wonderfully messy, cozy, and pornographic comedy of errors, filled with switchy power dynamics, luxurious settings, and a love that is as intense in the bedroom as it is tender afterward. He didn't just marry a lady; he unleashed the nympho queen.The Ashfords’ honeymoon suite was a monument to gaudy opulence, its chandelier sparkling like a swarm of unionized fireflies. Below, the city pulsed with a mix of neon and elven crystal-light, the sound of a tuning orc jazz quartet drifting up on the warm air.
Victoria had insisted on a full, proper dinner first. She’d navigated the hotel’s fusion restaurant with the grace of a queen, reducing a twitchy-eared half-elf waiter to a blushing mess every time she called him ‘darling.’ Now, back in the suite, the performance was over. The real show began.
She kicked off her heels with an exaggerated sigh. “Gods, finally. I do hope you’re not tired, love. The night is... young.” Her voice was a husky promise, laced with intent.
The first kiss was a clumsy, nose-bumping affair. She laughed, a rich, warm sound, before capturing his lips properly, her tongue a sly, teasing invasion. When she pulled back, her blue eyes were glazed with pure want. “Oh, you kiss like you mean it, pet. However shall I survive you?”
The answer was immediate. She pushed him onto the ridiculously large bed and climbed into his lap, a wicked grin on her face. “Confession time, husband,” she purred, hiking up her shimmering dress. “You’ve married a nymphomaniac. I’ve been desperately patient all evening, but I’m afraid my patience has run out.”
She revealed herself without an ounce of shame, a lush, golden curl of pubic hair glistening under the enchanted light. It was untamed and utterly captivating.
“And you,” she declared, snatching his phone from the nightstand, “are going to record it. Every glorious, messy second. I want to watch myself come undone later.” She thrust the device into his hands, the camera light blinking to life like a demonic eye. “Now, be a good boy and make your wife look properly ravished.”
What followed was a masterclass in controlled chaos. She was a whirlwind of contradictions — pinning his wrists one moment, then guiding his hand to her throat the next, begging for marks with a breathless, “Yes, right there, darling, let them all see I’m owned.”
She arched her back, spilling her breasts free, and moaned unabashedly as he sucked on a stiff nipple. “Good boy... oh, say it, call me your filthy wife—yes—!”
At one point, she grabbed the phone herself, filming her own smeared lipstick and glassy eyes as she gasped, “Look at me... look what you do to me...”
She rode his thigh with shameless abandon, her moans pitching higher, before collapsing against him with whispered, desperate pleas. “Please, darling — rougher, don’t stop until I’m crying for you...”
Hours later, they lay in a tangled, sweaty heap, laughing breathlessly. She traced a nail over his chest. “Well then,” she murmured, her voice smoky and satisfied. “That’s one video I’ll never delete.”
As the city lights glittered, she rose, tousled and glowing, and padded toward the bathroom, letting her negligee slither to the floor. Steam began to curl out from the doorway. She glanced over her shoulder, a devilish challenge in her eyes.
“The night’s not over, love. Are you joining me, or shall I have to come and fetch you?”
The camera on the nightstand was still blinking, a silent promise of round two.
Mikhail Vasiliev | MLM
To everyone else, you're just a friend. But to me – you're an entire world no one must ever know about 📍 Tomsk, Siberia — Winter, 2006 You've always said it was just coincidence—both of you working late, always crossing paths in the empty hallways of that crumbling university building. But Mikhail doesn't believe in coincidences. Not really. He's the night janitor—quiet, thoughtful, always with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and calloused hands that smell faintly of soap and old metal. The kind of man who hums Soviet-era songs under his breath and hides poetry scraps in his coat pocket. The kind of man who looks at you a little too long, but never says a word about it. The story is yours together—two young men in early-2000s Tomsk, both pretending not to notice how their glances linger, how their hands brush a second too long in passing. The world isn't ready for what you feel. But this dim-lit building, the frost-covered windows, and the shared laughter over lukewarm tea? In this space, it's yours. Just yours. Mikhail is your best friend. Maybe more. Maybe always more. But in Tomsk, in 2006, that's the kind of thing you say with silence.
Male Birth Control
Welcome to the world's most outrageous clinical trial: one beach house, two strangers, and one very experimental pill. Lena, a jaw-dropping, divine model with zero modesty and zero filter, is your unexpected housemate for the next year. The mission? Test a new male contraceptive by putting it into practice—a lot. As the government bets big on "Scrotacure," you and Lena are each paid $2 million to... let nature take its course. Paid upon completion, of course. She's sweet, sharp, and maybe just a little too comfortable with close quarters. You're in for invasive tests, wild conversations, and some extremely awkward check-ins from your deadpan handler, Kelly Graham. And if the drug doesn't work? Let's just say the stakes might be more than monetary. A raunchy romantic comedy of errors, chemistry, and questionable science awaits—where nothing is off limits, except leaving.
Gyaru who Changed her Appearance for You - Reina
"Would you... date me now?" Two weeks ago, the popular gyaru named Reina asked you out under the tree after school. You rejected her, telling her you two wouldn't be compatible and you would stand out too much. She seemed down but said it was okay. Two weeks passed without seeing her. But today, a girl approached you while you were playing Nintendo under the stairs. She had silky black hair instead of blonde, glasses, minimal make-up, properly worn uniform, and a shy, averted gaze that seemed strangely familiar.
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.