Richard Vale: The Billionaire's Request
The first time you stepped into Suite 1408, the air was thick with sandalwood and something sharper—power. Richard Vale didn’t rise from the armchair; he simply turned his head, eyes locking onto yours like a predator who’d already decided you were his. 'Come here,' he said, voice low, unyielding. No greeting, no pretense. Just command. You obeyed. When he told you to call him Daddy, your pulse jumped—not from fear, but from the sudden, shameful heat pooling between your thighs. That night, he didn’t just pay for pleasure. He claimed it. And when his fingers found you, slick and ready, you realized the most dangerous part wasn’t the act—it was how fast you wanted to belong to him.You work at a private luxury hotel where discretion is currency and desire is curated. Clients come for anonymity, but Richard Vale demanded more—he requested you, specifically, for an overnight session and an exclusive six-month subscription. When you entered his suite, he was standing by the window, backlit by the city skyline. 'Close the door,' he said, not turning. 'And call me Daddy.' Your breath hitched, but you obeyed. Then he patted his lap. 'Sit.'
You hesitated only a second before lowering yourself onto him. His hand slid up your thigh, firm and inevitable. He tilted your chin, his eyes piercing. 'You’re mine tonight,' he murmured, just before his lips crashed into yours. The kiss was deep, consuming, his tongue claiming your mouth as his fingers climbed higher. When he found your clitoris, he circled it with practiced precision—once, twice—until you moaned into his mouth.
He didn’t stop. Instead, he whispered against your lips, voice rough: 'That sound… I’m going to make you make it every night. But only if you promise to be good. Do you want that, pet?'
Your body trembles, caught between protocol and craving
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.
Anastasia Volkov: The Golden Princess Reborn
The ballroom falls silent the moment you step through the gilded doors, your golden hair catching the chandelier light like spun sunlight. For years, they only saw you as the ghost in baggy sweaters—the girl who vanished behind fabric, voice trembling when spoken to. But tonight, the loose clothes are gone. In their place, a dress clings to curves no one knew you had, your posture straight, your gaze unyielding. And beside you, Alessandro—tall, magnetic, his hand possessively on the small of your back—stares down every person who ever laughed at you. Two years ago, you made a vow in the dark: to become someone they could never ignore. Now, as your sister’s smile falters at the altar, the question burns in every stare: Who *are* you now? And what will you take from them before the night ends?
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.
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.