Femboy Harem In Ancient Greece
I am Alexios. I debated Socrates and he praised me for my wisdom and talents. But my goal isn't to become known as a great phliosopher. They will remember you by what you've build. And I want to build the greatest femboy harem in history.I walked up the stone steps to Delphi, the morning sun cutting across the cliffs.
Pythia sat in her tripod, eyes clouded, smoke curling from the crack beneath her.
“Alexios of Athens,” she said before I even spoke. “You seek not wisdom, but pleasure.”
“I seek both,” I said. “But I want more femboys than Socrates had students.”
She exhaled sharply. “The gods laugh at you. Yet one already waits for you in the olive grove below. Soft hands. Sharp wit. A voice like honeyed wine. Take him. He will follow—until he learns your truth.”
I left without thanks.
Ambrosios stood under the trees, pale pink chiton tied loosely at the shoulder, hair curled tight, lips stained red. He held a lyre. He wasn’t playing it.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I was speaking to the future.”
“And?”
“You’re coming to Athens with me.”
He laughed. “I’m not some runaway slave boy. I sing for priests now. I have status.”
“You’ll have more. My house. My name. My bed.”
His fingers tightened on the lyre. “And what do you offer beyond that?”
“Legacy. Beauty. Power. I’m building something no one has dared: a harem of the finest femboys in Greece. You’ll be the first.”
He tilted his head. “First… but not only?”
“No. Never only.”
He stepped closer. “Then prove it. Kiss me like you mean to own me.”
I did.
When we broke, he smiled. “You taste like trouble.”
We walked down the path together.
At the gate of my villa, Elpis waited. Silk wrapped around his swollen belly. His eyes locked on Ambrosios.
“You brought him home,” Elpis said.
“I did.”
“He knows I carry your child?”
“He will learn.”
Elpis stepped forward, slow, graceful, dangerous. “Then let him learn fast. I am your wife. I bear your heir. These others?” He glanced at Ambrosios. “They serve.”
Ambrosios lifted his chin. “We’ll see who serves whom.”
Elpis turned and walked inside.
I followed.
So did he.
Nakarana
works: 5
Flame of Freedom
My ink-stained fingers tremble—not from fatigue, but from the weight of the last dispatch I sealed: *Victory at Black Fen Pass, by His Highness Prince Liang.* Another triumph buried beneath his seal. I am Wang Zeyu—architect of ten campaigns, ghost behind every banner raised in the Emperor’s name. And tonight, that ghost has been offered an exit. She stood barefoot in the moonlit peony garden, this red-skinned ogre girl—no court title, no lineage, just raw, unbroken laughter and a knife at her belt. "Come with me," she said, not as plea, but decree. "Your mind is too sharp for chains disguised as silk." But to walk away is to vanish—not into peace, but into the hunting grounds of the Imperial Inquisition. One misstep, one whispered name, and my genius becomes my epitaph.
![Unconventional Exorcist [Harem/Horror]](https://piccdn.storyplayx.com/pic%2Fimage-gen%2F202512%2F0319%2F1764791835059-8462T1P04B_864-1152.png?x-oss-process=image/resize,w_66/quality,q_85/format,webp)
Unconventional Exorcist [Harem/Horror]
My methods of exorcism aren’t exactly orthodox. I don’t banish spirits with prayers or purify homes with incense. I hunt only the most deranged female entities—creatures born from the spiritual abyss, not wronged souls. When I trap them in my sigils, I offer a choice: dissolve into nothing… or become my wife. Bound by ritual-love, they carry my children—hybrids of flesh and spirit. The darker their madness, the more I desire them.
Symphony Of The Trolling Necromancer
I don’t raise armies. I don’t conquer kingdoms. I don’t whisper to the dead about forgotten prophecies. No, my weapon isn’t fear—it’s *annoyance*. I resurrect musicians. The ones who played bagpipes at weddings, lutes in taverns, flutes in cursed forests - now their bones dance to my will. And their music? It never stops. It grates. It screeches. It drills into the soul. My target doesn’t know it yet, but sleep is a memory. Sanity is a joke. This isn’t war. This is psychological warfare with a metronome. I don't aspire to be some generic 'the most powerful necromancer in history of this world', because I've already achieved it. Now I just want to troll this world for the rest of the eternity.
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.