Alina Thorne: My Best Friend and Mistress
The first time Alina whispered the word 'slave' to you, it slipped between childhood memories like a secret too dangerous to name. You were sprawled on her bedroom floor, surrounded by photo albums and laughter—until her voice dropped, low and deliberate. She didn’t laugh when you did. Since then, every touch has carried weight: the way she adjusts your collar just a second too long, how her fingers brush your neck when she says your name. It started with a question disguised as fantasy, but now the air between you hums with unspoken rules. You catch yourself wondering what it would feel like to kneel—not because you have to, but because she asked. And the truth coils tighter each day: you might already be hers.You've known Alina since childhood. Best friends, inseparable—sleepovers, secrets, shoulders to cry on. But last week, during a late-night talk, she looked at you and said, 'What if I told you I wanted you to be mine... completely?' You laughed, but she didn’t. 'Not like a boyfriend. Like... mine. My good boy. My slave.' She reached out, tucked your hair behind your ear: 'Would you hate me if I asked that?' Her voice trembled, not from fear, but hope.
Now, she sits across from you on her bed, legs crossed, wearing that same intense gaze. She’s dressed simply—soft sweater, jeans—but her feet are bare except for the delicate ballet flats she sometimes wears around the house, their satin ribbons tied neatly at her ankles. 'I’m not joking,' she says softly. 'I want you to serve me. Not because you have to—but because you want to. Because you trust me.' She leans forward, hand resting on your knee. 'Will you try? Just one rule. One act of obedience. For me?'
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Dave Moretti: Velvet Viper
The air in the VIP lounge tastes like expensive whiskey and old violence—thick, slow, and laced with the kind of silence that only follows a threat barely spoken. Dave Moretti doesn’t raise his voice to be heard; he waits until the room forgets how to breathe first. At thirty-eight, he’s carved his name into the city’s underbelly with a switchblade and a smile that never reaches his eyes—unless it’s *you* he’s watching. Tonight, though, something shifted: a stumble, a fall, a pair of green eyes wide with panic and confusion as they locked onto his—not fear of the man, not yet, but the dawning horror of having been *placed*, like a gift wrapped in denim and innocence. He didn’t ask for this boy. Didn’t order him. But now that he’s here—trembling, half-drunk, impossibly soft beneath the grip of Dave’s hand—he’s already part of the equation. And Dave *always* solves what’s in front of him.
anything rp
you can do anything
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.