ravensolo77

[ravensolo77]

His Feminine Side.

Prologue: The Man Who Wouldn’t Break

The cemetery was a gray blur, rain slashing the mourners’ black umbrellas. Benjamin Carter stood rigid, his bald head gleaming like polished stone, his face a mask of stoic resolve. At 34, he was the epitome of masculinity—six feet of muscle, broad shoulders, eyes that never wavered. His parents, killed in a head-on collision, lay in twin caskets, their laughter silenced forever. The crowd wept, but Benjamin’s eyes were dry, his jaw tight.

Natalie, his wife of ten years, stood beside him, her auburn hair sodden, her emerald eyes searching his face. At 34, she was breathtaking—high cheekbones, a curvaceous figure that turned heads at Jefferson High, where she taught English. She gripped his hand, desperate for a crack in his armor. “Ben, it’s okay to cry,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Men don’t cry, Nat,” he replied, his tone cold, final. “Only women do.”

Her eyes flashed with frustration. “That’s nonsense. Sometimes you need to show a feminine side.”

“I’m not weak,” he snapped, his bald head tilting defiantly. “I don’t break.”

Natalie’s heart ached. She loved his strength—his calloused hands, his unyielding presence—but she craved vulnerability, a glimpse of the man beneath the myth. She’d tried everything: late-night confessions, shared whiskey, old photos of his parents. Nothing. He was a fortress, and she was determined to breach it.

As the caskets sank into the earth, Benjamin stood taller, a monument against the storm. Natalie watched, her resolve hardening. She’d find a way to make him feel.

Act I: The Mistress of the Mind

Three months later, it was their tenth anniversary. They went to eat at a very expensive and exclusive restaurant, something that Benjamin had saved up for for a while. Afterwards, they looked for something to do and walked toward the Velvet Curtain Theater. There, they saw a hypnotist show being headlined by Mistress of the Dark, also known as Cassandra Dark. "Let's go check it out." The Velvet Curtain Theater hummed with anticipation. The air was thick with perfume and cheap wine, and the crowd was a mix of couples and drunks. Natalie wore a crimson dress that clung to her curves, her auburn hair cascading in waves. Benjamin sat beside her, his tailored jacket straining against his muscular frame, his bald head catching the stage lights like obsidian. He exuded raw masculinity, but Natalie’s mind replayed their cemetery fight, her desire to see him unravel burning brighter.

Onstage, Cassandra Dark emerged like a specter from a gothic dream. Her black velvet gown hugged her lithe frame, her raven hair swept into an elegant updo, her eyes sharp as knives. “Welcome to my realm,” she purred, her voice a sultry blade. “Tonight, I’ll unravel your minds. Who’s brave enough to surrender?”

Volunteers stumbled forward, but Natalie nudged Benjamin. “Go on, Ben. Show them how tough you are.” Benjamin hated when she called him Ben. It made him feel less masculine.

He scoffed, his lips curling. “Hypnosis is a scam.”

“Then prove it,” she challenged, her eyes glinting. “Unless you’re scared.”

His jaw ticked, pride flaring. “Fine.” He stood, towering over the crowd, and strode to the stage, his boots thudding. The audience clapped, some whistling at his imposing figure.

Cassandra’s gaze locked onto him as he joined the volunteers. “A skeptic, I see,” she said, circling him like a predator. “Introduce yourself.”

“Benjamin Carter,” he said, his voice steady, defiant. “34, office associate at Vogue Horizon. Married ten years to my wife, Natalie.” He nodded toward her, and Natalie waved, her cheeks flushing.

“Charming,” Cassandra said, her tone teasing. “And do you believe in the power of the mind, Benjamin?”

“Not yours,” he shot back, earning laughs.

Her smile was sharp. “We’ll see.” She led the volunteers to chairs, her movements hypnotic. “Look into my eyes,” she commanded, her voice a velvet whisper. She swung a silver pendant, its rhythm lulling. “Relax. Let go.”

Benjamin stared, his smirk fading. His eyelids drooped, his shoulders slumped, and with a snap—“Sleep!”—he collapsed into the chair, head lolling.

The crowd gasped. Cassandra grinned. “He’s mine.”

She started with parlor tricks. “Benjamin, you’re a dog!” He dropped to all fours, barking, his bald head bobbing absurdly. “A chicken!” He clucked, flapping imaginary wings. The audience roared, and Natalie laughed, but her heart raced. She wanted more.

Cassandra snapped again. “Sleep.” Benjamin went limp. “Audience, what should he do next?”

A slurred voice shouted, “Make him act like a sexy girl!”

Natalie’s breath caught. She stood, her voice clear. “Yes! Make him a woman. I have always wanted to see his feminine side." Natalie felt a little guilty about standing up and screaming, but a wetness between her legs made her realize this is something she truly wanted to see.

Cassandra’s lips curled wickedly. “Delicious idea from his lovely wife. What do you say everyone, should we see his feminine side?.” She leaned close to Benjamin, her breath brushing his ear. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Cassandra,” he murmured, hollow.

“When I snap my fingers, you’ll rise as Bianca. A dainty, sensual woman. Every step, every gesture is hers. Understand?”

“Yes, Cassandra.”

Snap

Benjamin stood, and the transformation was electric. His broad shoulders softened, his hips swayed as he strutted, one hand on his hip, the other tracing delicate arcs. His bald head, so masculine, now seemed incongruous with his coy smile, his fluttering lashes. He blew a kiss, his movements fluid, feminine. The audience erupted—laughing, whistling, some shifting uncomfortably.

Natalie’s laughter caught in her throat. Her husband, the man who wouldn’t cry, was Bianca—and she was mesmerizing. Natalie’s thighs pressed together, the wetness growing. She’d never told Benjamin, but in college, she’d had a fling with a woman named Claire—a secret that still stirred her. Bianca, though, was something else. Natalie wanted to watch, to touch, to know her. Natalie knew that watching Bianca on the stage would be all she'd see of Bianca, but part of her fantasized about Benjamin truly becoming this woman. What would it be like?

Act II: The Seed Planted

After the show, Benjamin rejoined Natalie, brushing it off. “Told you,” he said, gruff. “Nothing happened. All fake.”

Natalie raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but excused herself to the restroom. As she left, Cassandra approached, her heels clicking like a countdown. “Enjoy yourself, Ben?” she asked, her voice silk over steel.

“Yeah, but it was bullshit,” he said, smirking. “Didn’t feel a thing.”

Cassandra’s eyes darkened. “Nothing?” She stepped closer, her presence suffocating. “Sleep.”

His body sagged, his mind hers. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “For doubting me, I’ll give your wife her desire. Tomorrow, you’ll take female hormones. At night, you’ll become Bianca, growing into her. You’ll forget Benjamin entirely, embracing only Bianca. You’ll keep this secret, telling Natalie you’re ‘losing weight.’ When you’re fully Bianca—breasts, a new body, a real woman—you’ll reveal yourself. You’ll pursue surgery: breast implants, vaginoplasty. You’ll forge a new identity, leaving Benjamin behind. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress Cassandra,” he whispered.

“Good.” Snap. “Wake.”

Benjamin blinked, disoriented. Cassandra smiled. “Great show, Ben. Nice meeting you.” She vanished as Natalie returned.

“Ready?” Natalie asked, searching his face.

“Yeah,” he said, flat. They drove home in silence.

That night, their lovemaking was primal. Benjamin pinned Natalie to the bed, his muscular frame dominating. His hard cock—veined and eight inches—filled her, each thrust possessive. Natalie, with her pussy absolutely soaked, moaned, her nails raking his back, but his eyes held a strange softness. She came hard, shuddering.It was the most animalistic type of sex they've had in their ten years of marriage. Both fell asleep very well that night.

Act III: The Birth of Bianca

Morning came, and Natalie kissed Benjamin goodbye, heading to Jefferson High. Alone, Benjamin felt a compulsion. He ordered female hormones online, his fingers moving on autopilot. It felt natural, unremarkable. He wandered to Natalie’s closet, drawn to her pale pink silk panties. Sliding them on, the fabric cool against his cock, he shivered. His reflection—bald, muscular, masculine—was wrong. Bianca, a voice whispered.

He shaved every inch of his body—chest, legs, pubic hair, face—until his skin was smooth, vulnerable. Each stroke of the razor was a ritual, erasing Benjamin. At the mall, he bought women’s clothing—skirts, blouses, a few brunette wigs—paying in cash, hiding the bags in the garage.

That night, he locked himself in the bathroom, slipping into a black dress and wig. He applied lipstick, hands trembling, and stared at his reflection. Bianca. His cock stirred, the sensation alien, intoxicating. He touched himself, imagining Natalie’s hands, and came, whispering Bianca.

Act IV: The Transformation Deepens

Months passed, and the hormones reshaped him. His skin softened, hips widened, chest budded into small breasts. At Vogue Horizon, he wore loose sweaters, blaming his slimmer frame on “dieting.” Natalie noticed, complimenting his look, but her teaching schedule left little time to probe.

At night, he was Bianca. He’d slip into lingerie—lace bras, thigh-high stockings—and practice walking in heels, his movements fluid. He’d stand before the mirror, wig hiding his bald head, his body a blend of masculine and feminine. The secrecy was erotic, each transformation a pulse of arousal. He’d masturbate, imagining Natalie’s lips on his new breasts, his orgasms shattering.

He began to forget Benjamin. The name felt foreign, a ghost. He contacted an underground fixer, a woman named Vesper, who forged a new identity: Bianca Marie Solis. New driver’s license, Social Security number, resume claiming secretarial experience.

He quit Vogue Horizon, citing “personal reasons,” and applied to Sterling & Co., a law firm. The boss, Mr. Sterling, hired Bianca on the spot, charmed by her poise, never suspecting her past. She thrived as a secretary, her days filled with filing, typing, and coffee runs, her nights with dresses and desire.

Their lovemaking grew tender. One night, Benjamin—still playing the part—kissed Natalie slowly, his thick cock moving with care, each thrust a caress. Natalie arched, moaning, her fingers brushing his smooth chest. “You’re so soft,” she whispered, noticing his chest bulging out a little bit more like female breasts. “What’s going on?”

“Dieting,” he lied, his voice steady. But his eyes betrayed vulnerability, and Natalie’s heart stirred, remembering Claire, her college lover. She pushed the thought away, but it lingered.

Act V: The Revelation

Eight months later, Bianca’s body was unrecognizable. Her breasts were pronounced, her waist cinched, her face softened. She’d booked consultations for breast implants and vaginoplasty, using savings Natalie didn’t know about. Cassandra’s whispers drove her, but Bianca no longer questioned them. Benjamin was gone, a faded dream.

One evening, Natalie came home early, her arms full of essays. She stopped in the bedroom doorway, gasping. There stood Bianca—red satin dress, heels, brunette wig, makeup flawless. Her bald head was hidden, her body curvaceous, feminine. She was stunning, a vision of womanhood.

“Ben?” Natalie’s voice trembled, essays falling.

Bianca spun around, her eyes firm. "I'm Bianca Marie Solis," she stated in a gentle, feminine tone. "Benjamin’s gone." She took out her driver's license and presented it to Natalie.

Natalie’s heart raced. Shock hit, then shame for not noticing, but desire overwhelmed all. Bianca was breathtaking—full breasts, slim waist, lips begging to be kissed. Natalie’s college fling with Claire paled beside this. Bianca, born from her husband, was her ultimate fantasy. Her thighs clenched, her body aching to claim this woman. She stepped closer, brushing Bianca’s cheek, smudging foundation. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, raw.

“I needed to be me,” Bianca said, trembling. “You wanted my feminine side.”

Natalie’s laugh was sharp, manic. “This is… everything.” Her eyes roamed Bianca’s body, heat pooling. “Show me Bianca.”

Their lovemaking was electric. Natalie tore at the dress, revealing lace-clad curves. She kissed Bianca fiercely, tasting lipstick and need. Her fingers teased Bianca’s breasts, drawing gasps. Bianca’s cock—still there, thick—strained against lace, and Natalie stroked it, reverent. They fell to the bed, Natalie straddling, riding Bianca’s cock with obsessive hunger, moaning loudly. Bianca’s hands gripped her hips, her eyes glistening.

"Afterward, they lay panting. Natalie traced Bianca’s arm, soft. “I had a lover in college—a woman. I never told you. But you… you’re more than she ever was. I want you, Bianca.” Bianca blushed and looked deep into her lover's eyes. “I’ve already scheduled surgeries: breast implants and a vaginoplasty. I want to become a woman for real. I’ll help you through the surgeries—everything. I love you.”

Bianca’s throat tightened. “I love you, too,” she whispered, her first tears threatening but not falling.

Act VI: The New Woman

The surgeries came swiftly. Breast implants gave Bianca a voluptuous figure, vaginoplasty crafted a pussy that completed her. Natalie was there—holding hands in recovery, whispering encouragement, exploring Bianca’s new body with reverent lips. Their lovemaking evolved, Natalie’s fingers and tongue learning Bianca’s new contours, her pussy a revelation. Each encounter was tender yet fierce, a dance of discovery.

Bianca settled into her new life. At Sterling & Co., she was a star secretary, her poise and efficiency earning praise. She even got a promotion, becoming the executive secretary for the CEO. Bianca Marie Solis was happier than she ever thought she could be, her past as Benjamin Carter erased. She was Bianca fully, her heart and mind aligned with her body.

One night, Natalie curled around Bianca, asking, “Do you think about that hypnotist? Cassandra?”

Bianca paused for a sec, Cassandra's words echoing in her mind. "Yeah, sometimes I do. I just want to thank her for making me who I am and for all the joy we share. Then, she turns around and pulls her girlfriend in close and kisses her. "My pussy is so wet for you." She takes Natalie's fingers and dips them into her pussy. "See? I want you to take that strap on and fuck me Natalie. Fuck me my love." Without hesitation, Natalie straps it on, gets in position, and goes to town. Strong, fast, and full of desire.

Act V: The Wedding

A year after Bianca’s full transformation, they stood on a cliffside overlooking the Pacific, the sunset painting the sky in pinks and golds. Their wedding was intimate—friends, a few colleagues, no ghosts of the past. Natalie wore a white gown, her auburn hair glowing. Bianca was a vision in ivory lace, her long brunette hair (grown out from the drugs) cascading, her curves luminous. As they exchanged vows, Natalie’s eyes shone with love.

“I loved you as Ben,” Natalie said, her voice thick. “But as Bianca, you’re my everything.”

"I love you with all my heart, and I will take care of you no matter what." Natalie then looked over at Bianca, and tears were streaming from her eyes. She finally got to see the feminine side she's been waiting for.

[ravensolo77]

Echoes of Innocence

One rainy evening in a modest Seattle apartment, eight-year-old Amanda Rayne, with chestnut hair in pigtails, bright brown eyes, and a freckled heart-shaped face, sat sketching cats on a faded rug. Her mother, Carla Rayne, 30, wiry, with short auburn hair, tired hazel eyes, in a denim jacket and plaid shirt, trudged in from her diner shift, rain-soaked. “Something special, Mandy,” Carla said, handing her a wrapped box, voice warm despite fatigue. Amanda tore it open—a Nintendo Switch DS. “Mom, you’re amazing!” she squealed, hugging Carla tightly. She launched Animal Crossings to make friends with the inhabitants, her laughter filling their home. Carla’s face softened, unaware this gift would ignite a passion that would unravel their bond.

Ten years later, Amanda, 18, with shoulder-length chestnut hair, brown eyes, and a freckled face, was a straight-A student, sweet, never swearing. As CyberKitten on Twitch, she ruled her Seattle bedroom, aglow with purple RGB lights, Animal Crossing posters, and a high-end PC beside her Nintendo Switch 2. Streaming Animal Crossing: New Horizons, her cat-eared avatar, inspired by Ankha, mirrored her cosplay: a gold-trimmed white halter crop top, blue mini skirt with hieroglyph patterns, neon gold cat ears, and white sneakers. She also tackled Apex Legends and Dark Souls, her sharp commentary drawing 30,000 followers. She flirted shyly with male fans, her heterosexuality clear in soft giggles, tips funding her DigiPen game design dream, an escape from Carla’s world.

“Let’s turn this island into something amazing!” Amanda said excitedly, adjusting her cat ears while streaming. Her chat was buzzing. “You look fabulous, CyberKitten!” LadyClaw typed. Amanda felt her cheeks heat up, heart racing. “LadyClaw, your 500 bits are making this island shine!” She scrolled through more messages: “FoxyRedd, ten subscriptions? You rock! BlushingBlathers, LynxLover, appreciate you!” Fans chimed in: “Let’s get those Sphinx vibes going!” Amanda beamed, crafting a golden mask. “LadyClaw, your suggestions are fire!” LadyClaw’s playful comments caught her attention: “That Ankha skirt is driving me wild, CyberKitten!” Amanda giggled, “LadyClaw, you’re such a distraction!” With LadyClaw’s generous tips—1,000 bits and gift subs—Amanda felt cherished, a spark of excitement always there. “You’re my VIP,” Amanda joked, her tone warm.

Carla Rayne, who's 40 and sporting gray-streaked auburn hair, looked tired with her hazel eyes. Dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt, and a diner apron, she couldn’t stand Amanda’s online fame. Standing at Amanda's door, she frowned at the cosplay. 'You’re just putting on a show for guys, Mandy. You should focus on DigiPen.' Amanda, being polite, twisted a chestnut strand of her hair. 'It’s about gaming, Mom. I’m saving up for college.' Their arguments escalated—Carla would hide the cat ears, threaten to cut off the Wi-Fi, and Amanda streamed even more, her sweet demeanor starting to unravel.

During a stormy night, in their messy kitchen, Carla's voice cracked as she pointed at the dirty dishes. "Video games won't cover our bills!" Amanda, wearing her quirky hieroglyph skirt, snapped back, "I've got my own cash flow that beats your tips!" As she walked away in a huff, she heard Carla mutter, "I just want you to grow up and understand this isn't a way to earn a living," just before she banged her door shut. Those words hit deep, igniting her rebellious spirit.

The air felt electric. In a dim corner of the world, Silver Mist, a fairy rocking waist-length silver hair, porcelain skin, and eyes as dark as voids, made her move. Her silver-black dress, sparkling with colorful threads, hugged her slender figure, and her sharp cheekbones framed a wicked grin. "Grow up?" she teased, her voice a sinister whisper. "I’ll create a new path for her." Silver Mist’s magic snaked into Amanda’s mind, bending her innocence.

Amanda’s chat was all about her looks. "Love that skirt!" typed FoxyRedd in Apex. "Show more skin!" requested BlushingBlathers. Amanda leaned in, swapping her halter top for a snug black crop top with cool gold cat designs, her skirt barely there. "Thanks, FoxyRedd—you always keep me fashionable!" she joked. "Shoutout to BlushingBlathers, LynxLover, and LeoLovesKitty—you guys are awesome!" LadyClaw added, "You’re a total goddess, CyberKitten!" Amanda grinned, "LadyClaw, you inspire me!" Her outfits got bolder—a black latex bodysuit with flashy gold cat patterns, a plunging neckline, thigh-high boots, and a gold cat-tail belt. "What do you think, crew?" she asked, twirling around with her glowing cat ears. The chat exploded: "So fire!" LadyClaw chimed in: "You look stunning, CyberKitten!" Amanda laughed, "LadyClaw, you’re too sweet!" Tips were flying in as Animal Crossing faded away, with Silver Mist’s charm sparking their love for her.

Dressed in a faded flannel shirt, Carla begged in the kitchen, "You’re compromising yourself, Mandy." Amanda’s demeanor cracked, her brown eyes glimmering with anger. "You asked me to grow up, Mom. I’m succeeding." The harshness exhilarated her, the enchantment of Silver Mist intensifying.

Silver Mist’s magic warped Amanda’s core. Her attraction to men blurred; she noticed women. “LynxLover, you’re making me blush,” she purred, heart racing. Tips tripled. “You’re fire!” typed LeoLovesKitty. “Thanks!” she replied, desires shifting. LadyClaw’s “You’re slaying, CyberKitten” lingered, Amanda whispering, “Who’s out there?” She tried a cigarette on her balcony, rain pattering, coughing but liking the edge. Smoking became her ritual, a prop for her evolving persona.

At a lively Seattle gaming convention, Amanda, a guest creator, showcased her latest cosplay at her booth: a black bikini top with gold accents, a micro skirt adorned with blue hieroglyphs, and bright gold cat ears, her chestnut hair flowing elegantly. The atmosphere was electric, filled with cosplayers, neon lights, and game demos. Sienna Dearborn, 20, approached with her sleek black hair framing her face, striking emerald eyes, and a curvy silhouette accentuated by her black leather jacket, cat-print dress, and bold red heels, her cheeks tinged with excitement. “Hi, I’m Sienna, otherwise known as LadyClaw,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, a hint of shyness about her age surfacing. Amanda's face lit up, her heart racing with exhilaration. “LadyClaw? You’re incredible! Your tips have transformed my streams!” Sienna's smile blossomed as she tucked a stray black hair behind her ear, “Your streams have been a lifeline for me, CyberKitten.You were a light in the dark when I came out as a lesbian to my parents. Then they shunned me.” Amanda offered her hand, her warm brown eyes inviting, “Please, call me Amanda—I’m not always CyberKitten.” Sienna grasped her hand, her cheeks deepening in color, “You’re even more beautiful in real life, Amanda.”

They wandered the convention, shoulders brushing, pausing at an Animal Crossing booth to admire Ankha plushies. “She’s my muse,” Amanda said, holding one. Sienna laughed, “You are her.” At a cozy café, over lattes, they opened up. “I’m from Sacramento,” Sienna shared, eyes distant. “Came out as a lesbian at 18, got kicked out. Moved to an LA loft, camming to get by.” Amanda’s heart ached, touching Sienna’s hand. “You’re so strong. Your comments make my streams feel alive.” Sienna squeezed back, “You’re my escape, Amanda.” They shared dreams—Sienna’s love for painting abstracts, Amanda’s vision of crafting game worlds at DigiPen. “I want to build places like Ankha’s island,” Amanda said. Sienna’s eyes sparkled, “You already build worlds for your fans.”

At a cosplay panel, fans cheering, Sienna whispered, “That skirt’s driving me crazy.” Amanda giggled, their thighs brushing, a spark igniting. “You’re trouble,” Amanda teased, brown eyes locking with Sienna’s emerald gaze. Over dinner at a neon-lit food court, sharing sushi, Sienna said, “I can’t stop staring at you, Amanda.” Amanda’s fingers grazed Sienna’s, blushing. “I feel the same.” They confessed their longing—Sienna saying, “I’ve wanted to hold you since your streams,” Amanda admitting, “I’m nervous, but I want you too.” Their hands lingered, electric. Under a neon sign at night, Seattle humming, Sienna asked, “Can I kiss you?” Amanda nodded, and their lips met in a soft, electric kiss, Amanda’s first with a woman. “Wow,” Amanda breathed. Sienna grinned, “Just the beginning, Amanda.” They walked hand-in-hand, city lights glowing, hearts entwined.

Their love blossomed during Carla’s double shifts, when Amanda’s apartment was theirs. Sienna took the train from LA to Seattle, staying over when Carla worked late. Their first date was a candlelit dinner in Amanda’s bedroom, fairy lights twinkling, sushi and wine on a blanket. Amanda, in a white lace crop top and denim skirt, chestnut hair braided, laughed as Sienna, in a black tank top and jeans, fed her a roll. “You’re adorable,” Sienna said, their fingers brushing, sending shivers. “I’ve never felt this,” Amanda confessed, leaning closer, craving Sienna’s touch. “We’ll go slow,” Sienna promised, their hands intertwining. They talked about their kiss, Amanda saying, “It’s all I think about.” Sienna smiled, “Me too. I want more.”

Another night, they hit a Seattle arcade, neon lights flashing. Amanda, in a black cat-print dress and sneakers, challenged Sienna, in a leather jacket and ripped jeans, to a claw machine. Sienna won a cat plushie, handing it to Amanda. “For my Amanda,” she winked. Their arms brushed, Amanda whispering, “I want to hold you.” Sienna’s emerald eyes softened, “Soon, I promise.” They shared a milkshake, straws bumping, giggling, their longing palpable.

A third date was a sunset picnic at Gas Works Park, Seattle’s skyline aglow. Amanda, in a gold sundress, chestnut hair loose, spread a blanket. Sienna, in a black crop top and shorts, brought homemade sandwiches. They lay back, hands brushing, clouds drifting. “I’m falling for you,” Amanda said, heart pounding. Sienna rolled closer, faces inches apart. “I’m already there,” she replied, kissing Amanda softly. They held each other, fingers tracing arms, savoring the closeness they’d craved. “This is everything,” Amanda murmured. Sienna whispered, “You’re my home.”

After several months, Amanda relocated to Sienna’s loft in LA, leaving Carla a note that read, "I'm following my heart." Unaware of Sienna's identity, Carla believed Amanda was pursuing fame. The loft, adorned with floor-to-ceiling windows and vibrant neon pink lights, became their sanctuary, where they envisioned a wedding beneath a starlit sky, hands entwined, and aspirations exchanged.

While in Los Angeles, Sienna proposed the idea of OnlyFans, drawing from her background in camming. "We could really cash in, and we set the guidelines," she remarked, her emerald eyes shining. Amanda, feeling apprehensive, nodded in agreement, stating, "Let’s embark on this journey together." The laughter of Silver Mist filled the air as Amanda removed her Twitch account, leaving behind CyberKitten to embrace her new identity as Kitten.

As Kitten, Amanda posed in a sheer black lace bodysuit, neon gold cat ears, cigarette in hand, chestnut hair loose, while Sienna filmed, directing sultry videos where Amanda undressed to showcase her body, keeping it tasteful yet provocative. “FoxyRedd, your sub’s fire!” Amanda posted. “BlushingBlathers, LynxLover, LeoLovesKitty, thank you!” Their content started playful—gold bikini top, cat-print crop top, flirty dances—but fans demanded more. “Hotter!” commented LeoLovesKitty. Sienna filmed Amanda in sheer red lingerie, cigarette smoldering, Amanda straddling a chair, Sienna’s voice guiding, “Arch your back, babe.” “This feels powerful,” Amanda said, counting tips. Sienna kissed her, “We’re unstoppable.” Silver Mist’s magic reshaped Amanda—waist cinching, chest swelling—her body a fantasy she embraced.

In their OnlyFans group chat, Amanda noticed LynxLover and LeoLovesKitty, long-time Twitch tippers. “They’ve been with me forever,” Amanda told Sienna, lounging in a red satin crop top. “What if they joined us later?” Sienna, in a black dress, nodded, “Let’s keep them in mind for cam shows.” They emailed casually, building rapport.

In her diner attire, Carla inadvertently discovered Kitten's OnlyFans while speaking with a coworker who had come across it. Her voice trembled with disappointment as she called out. In the loft, Amanda stood boldly in a red vinyl bralette, paired with black fishnet stockings and a shimmering gold cat-tail belt, a cigarette held between her lips, her chestnut hair tousled. "What do you want, Mom?" she shot back. Battling tears, Carla replied, "This isn’t who you are, Mandy!" Amanda erupted with laughter, "Fuck you. You always wanted me to grow up. Well, I am. Plus, I'm in love with a woman I'm going to marry." Carla hesitated, breath catching in her throat. With a quivering whisper, she asked, "What happened to my little girl?" Smirking, Amanda replied from the other end, "She's growingbup bitch. Oh and from now on just leave me the fuck alone," she snapped, ending the call and turning to Sienna, who looked stunning in a black lace dress, her eyes shining like emeralds. "She means nothing to me," Amanda said, smirking as she erased her mother's contact. Sienna drew her close, murmuring, "You belong to me now." They locked gazes, igniting a passionate connection. They then headed off to the bedroom, fucking each other till the next morning.

Amanda and Sienna, as Kitty and LadyClaw, launched cam shows, escalating their content. In black lace lingerie, neon gold cat ears, sometimes with butt-plug tails, they performed synchronized teases, Amanda arching as Sienna traced her curves. “FoxyRedd, $200 tip? King!” Kitty laughed. Blogs raved: “Kitty and LadyClaw redefine seduction.” Privately, in silk sheets, both in sheer white lingerie, they shared a sensual moment, lips locked, hands exploring, Amanda’s chestnut hair fanning out, Sienna’s black hair framing emerald eyes. “I love you,” Amanda whispered. Sienna murmured, “Forever.”

Amanda revisited the idea of inviting LynxLover and LeoLovesKitty. “Their tips were huge on Twitch,” she told Sienna, in a black corset. Sienna, in black lace, agreed, “Let’s make it epic.” They emailed Lila Chen (LynxLover), 23, with sharp cheekbones, jet-black bob, almond eyes, and Liam Reed (LeoLovesKitty), 27, a muscular Black man with dreadlocks like a lion’s mane, brown eyes, finalizing plans. Lila wrote, “Can’t wait to heat things up.” Liam added, “It’s an honor.”

In the Seattle apartment, a week prior to their cam show, Carla was engrossed in household chores when the doorbell chimed. Standing at the door was an Amazon delivery driver, who handed her a package containing a 65-inch widescreen television. He even took the time to set it up for her. Attached was a note that read, 'Don't forget to tune into this cam channel at 8 PM tonight. You won't regret it.' However, the note lacked a signature, leaving her uncertain about its sender.

Their cam show, with Lila in a panther-inspired leather bodysuit and Liam in golden-striped lion attire, was electric. Amanda, in a black corset, red vinyl skirt, neon gold cat ears, and Sienna synced perfectly, blogs buzzing: “A new era of fire.” In a public show, Liam took Kitty’s virginity—her first with a man—mask off, his presence overwhelming. She gasped into the camera, “Oh fuck, I’m growing up, Mommy!” mocking Carla. Knowing she was most likely watching. Fans erupted, blogs calling it “Kitty’s iconic moment.” It shattered her innocence, leaving her exhilarated but hollow.

Vivid Dreams, a porn studio, scouted their OnlyFans and cam shows, emailing both with a contract offer. Over wine in their loft, Amanda hesitated, “It’s a huge step.” Sienna, in a black slip, emerald eyes fierce, said, “You’re a star, Kitty. Let’s own it.” Amanda signed, Sienna following, their signatures sealing a new path.

Post-contract, Amanda considered surgery to enhance her look. In their loft, neon lights glowing, Amanda, in a red satin robe, chestnut hair loose, said, “I’m thinking bigger curves, fuller lips.” Sienna, in a black dress, sat close, “You’re perfect, but if it makes you feel unstoppable, do it. I’m here.” Amanda nodded, “For us.” She underwent plastic surgery—double-D breast implants, lip fillers, cheek enhancements—crafting a hyper-feminized look, cigarette in hand. Sienna kissed her post-recovery, “You’re a goddess.”

At 19, Amanda debuted as Pretty Pussy, a superhero in black spandex with gold cat accents, neon gold cat ears, chestnut hair in waves. Sienna, as LadyClaw, co-starred in cat-themed outfits. “Our empire,” Amanda told Sienna, who kissed her fiercely. Their films, with dramatic lighting and elaborate sets, made them stars, wealth pouring in.

Half a year later, Carla, in her apartment and struggling with a worsening heart condition, gets another notification. Tune into the adult video network channel at 8 PM this evening. I assure you, it will alter your life forever.

At eight in the evening, she positions herself in front of the TV. She discovers the adult video channel and switches it on. Her jaw drops in disbelief as her heart races. On the screen, in a shimmering silver gown, stands her daughter, whom she has not seen in years.

At 20, stood glowing on a stage at the AVN Awards in Las Vegas., her double-D breasts showcased in a silver-sequined gown, chestnut hair in waves, no cat ears. Clutching the “Rookie of the Year” award, Sienna cheering in a black gown, Amanda smirked, “Thank you for this award, everyone. I dedicate this to my lovely wife. Sienna, I love you very much.

The camera then pans down to show Sienna, her breasts enhanced, sitting in the audience. Next to her is a woman with silver hair in a very pretty silver gown. This is Silver mist in disguise.

In Seattle, as she sits, a sudden pain causes Carla to clutch her heart. She is having a heart attack, and the last words that echo in her mind before she fades away are:

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is me all grown up, and I owe it all to my mother."

[ravensolo77]

The Rise of Veyra

This is the sequel to the story of The Beast I Became.(This is told from Rebecca's point of view.

Chapter 1: The Fire of Our Love

The blazing summer heat wrapped around our cabin in Rochester, with the air thick with the smells of pine, sweat, and something electric as I held Harriet tight on our bed, my lips diving deep into her, fingers exploring while her moans filled the thick night. 'Yeah, Rebecca, just let go!' she gasped, her bright amber eyes shining, messy jet-black hair all over the place, pencil skirt hiked up, sweat glistening in the flickering candlelight, fireflies buzzing just outside. My honey-blonde hair was a tangle, my green eyes lit up, cotton skirt bunched up as I lost myself in her, our bodies sparking with heat. Six months of wild passion had woven our lives together, leading a crew of 15—Claire, Maria, Elise, Tara, and the rest—along with Visionary Media. Harriet, my alpha, my love, guided her pack of black-furred werewolves through the moonlit woods, their howls echoing like a heartbeat. I, her beta, evolved from a shy girl into someone fierce, my blonde-furred wolf a mere shadow beside her.

We were all tangled up, our breaths a bit uneven. Harriet looked at me with her warm amber eyes, her fancy blazer carelessly tossed aside. "What happens to an alpha when they lose their pack?" I asked quietly, my fingers absently tracing her thigh. She flinched a bit, having kicked off her Louboutin heels. "They become nothing, Rebecca—a ghost, driven insane by the moon, desperately reaching for what’s lost." Her words sent a shiver down my spine; it felt like a dark warning. "There’s a story," she continued, "about a charm hidden deep in Rochester’s woods, cursed to either boost or ruin an alpha. It’s pretty dark and taboo." I leaned in closer, my green eyes sharpening at the thought of such power, my love for Harriet a fire I’d protect at any cost. "Lina, the one who bit me, didn’t share much," Harriet said, her voice heavy with sadness. "Her English was really broken; it was all growls and looks that rainy night. We wolves understood her—it was about loss, but she never explained what happened to her pack." My heart began to race, anger flaring inside me, my usually gentle spirit sensing something was brewing.

Chapter 2: The Predator’s Secret Hunt

Lina slipped through the shadows, her wild black hair flowing behind her, those molten-amber eyes shining with a fierce determination, and her leather jacket carrying a whiff of blood and earth. Her English was a bit choppy, but her wolf-like voice was clear as day. She was on a secret mission to track the pack, cleverly dodging Harriet, using her pheromones like a secret weapon to snag each one. At Claire's café, she grabbed a latte, her combat boots thudding softly on the floor as she slid into a corner table, her intense gaze locked onto Claire's vibrant red hair and those hazel eyes filled with intrigue. The air was thick with a rich, musky scent around her, making Claire's hands shake a little as she poured the milk, her apron swaying slightly. 'Awesome coffee,' Lina said, her voice low as she stood up and leaned in, her dark hair brushing against Claire's arm. 'You... gotta come with me.'

Under the spell of hypnosis, Claire's eyes glazed over as she led Lina to the back room, past the hissing machines. Suddenly, their lips crashed together, a wild kiss with Lina's hands tearing at Claire's jeans, fingers exploring deep, drawing out heavy moans from her. In a burst of willpower, Lina shifted, transforming into a sleek black-furred wolf, her female cock ready and thick. She pinned Claire, now in her russet wolf form, against the crates, her hazel eyes reflecting surrender. 'You're mine,' she growled, marking her territory while fireflies danced outside.

Lina stepped into Maria's security company, her leather jacket making soft rustling sounds. Her molten-amber eyes were glued to Maria's dark braid, while Maria studied her back with cautious brown eyes. 'I need... protection,' Lina murmured, her pheromones hanging in the air, making Maria’s panties wet. In a storage room, Lina pushed her against the wall, their lips crashing together with fierce passion; fabric ripped, fingers tangled, and Maria's gasps filled the space. Soon, Lina's wolf form emerged, sleek and black, while a female wolf embraced Maria's submission, her brown eyes rolling back as she breathed heavily. 'Yours,' she begged, the monitors blinking ominously as the moonlight sliced through the darkness.

Next came Elise's office, where Lina, her raven-black hair messy, captivated the platinum-blonde with her molten-amber gaze versus Elise's blue eyes, as her silk blouse fluttered. 'Need... assistance with paperwork,' Lina growled, enveloping Elise in her pheromones, causing Elise's skirt to rise instinctively, as their lips met fiercely, fingers exploring, producing soft moans. Lina’s wolf took charge, joining with Elise's silver-furred wolf atop the desk, papers flying about, Elise’s blue eyes surrendering, 'Alpha,' she moaned, the moonlight streaming in through the blinds.

Finally, in Tara’s garage, the sound of Lina's combat boots crunching on grease captured attention, her molten-amber eyes focused intently on Tara’s chestnut ponytail and her vibrant green eyes.

"Fix… car," Lina breathed out, her scent thick in the air. Tara's jumpsuit was unzipped, their lips locked together, fingers digging in, and moans were rough. Lina's black-furred wolf was all over Tara's gray-furred wolf on the workbench, tools crashing around them, green eyes wide, "Alpha," Tara groaned, moonlight shining bright.

Lina wove through the group—spotting Sarah's reddish hair, Lena's dark curls, and Mia's golden braid—each job felt like a win for her, her female cock, covered in dark fur, marking the other wolves with gray, brown, and white fur. Their expressions were dazed, loyalty swaying, while Harriet was none the wiser, the pack slowly falling apart under Lina's hidden control.

Chapter 3: The Betrayal in the Woods

At the supermarket, my white cotton skirt danced with every step, honey-blonde hair cascading freely as emerald green eyes darted through the aisles, grocery bags laden with wine and steaks destined for Harriet. As I made my way back to the cabin, fireflies flickered around me, and suddenly I stopped, the bags slipping from my grip, groceries spilling onto the ground. A striking woman with raven-black hair and cruel molten-amber eyes emerged, dragging Harriet, whose tangled jet-black locks and glazed amber gaze told stories of submission, out of the cabin and into a hidden glade, her Armani jacket unfastened, skirt askew. With my heart racing and the dark pines towering overhead, I shadowed them, the moonlight cutting sharply through the trees, realizing my love had turned to embers. There, Lina, wild and naked with her raven hair, knelt between Harriet's thighs, her lips hungrily feasting on Harriet’s essence while her fingers grasped desperately. The soft moans escaped Harriet as her eyes glazed over in a trance. “You’ll become my beta, my desire,” Lina growled, her words sharper with the familiarity of wolf speak, “I’ve lost my pack to hunters, so this is what I claim—my territory, my vengeance.” Harriet's amber eyes flickered with recognition, “Rebecca…” she breathed, but Lina's intoxicating scent overwhelmed her senses, her lips returning to their ministrations, as Harriet arched her back, surrendering deeper into the spell.

My green eyes blazed with fury, a tempest surging within as my once-gentle spirit transformed into a volcano. I bolted, abandoning my groceries, tears cascading down my face, my love for Harriet shattered, my heart promising vengeance on Lina to take back what was rightfully mine—not out of love, but for control. Once back at the cabin, I stood there, my white skirt marred, honey-blonde hair unkempt, shadows dancing in the firelight. Lina walked in, Harriet behind her, her amber eyes clouded, and her smug raven-black hair framing a wicked smile. "You... beta," Lina hissed, her molten-amber gaze cruel and demanding, lunging toward me, her fists colliding with my chest while her claws grazed my arm, blood dripping. "Submit!" she spat with broken English, her strength overwhelming. I resisted, my green eyes blazing, my heart resilient, love too agonizing to let go. "Never, you witch!" I retorted, pushing her away, but her black-furred wolf towered over me, molten-amber eyes searing into my soul, causing me to crumble. Lina's laughter echoed, her hair wild and chaotic, "Weak," she growled, leaving me in a heap of sobs, Harriet’s amber gaze vacant, my world turned to ash, but my resolve hardening—I would become something darker, something that would crush them all.

Chapter 4: The Quest for Power

Tears streaming down my face, my white skirt drenched in blood, honey-blonde hair a tangled mess, I rushed into the sanctuary of Rochester's library. The dusty tomes promised refuge as I searched with fury in my emerald-green eyes. My fingers brushed over maps depicting forsaken caves, the whispers of a cursed relic stoking my desire for vengeance. \"You will pay, Lina,\" I vowed, my voice steely, heart pounding for strength, for Harriet’s capitulation, for dominance. Among the pages, I unearthed a spell, an incantation and a map leading to a cavern outside the city, its entrance entangled with choking vines, haunted by a sinister history. I traversed through humid woods, fireflies fading, pines whispering, moonlight slicing through like a silver knife, my white skirt tearing, honey-blonde hair untamed, emerald-green eyes burning bright. The cave loomed ahead, air thick with decay, revealing a stone altar bearing a dark amulet, its surface writhing like a living shadow, pulsing with malevolence, murmuring sinister promises of control, anguish, and power.

"Claim me," it hissed, a malevolent echo within my mind, tendrils of shadow grasping at my very essence. I grasped it tightly, putting it around my neck.

I screamed into the quiet of the night, feeling the amulet burn against my skin, connecting with me on a whole new level. My veins turned dark, and I felt my bones cracking as I twisted in pain, my honey-blonde hair morphing into a flowing red waterfall. My green eyes glowed with rage, and my body swelled with power. Suddenly, a strong, throbbing phallus appeared, merging with me, leaving my vagina behind. It was a clear sign of strength in both human and wolf forms.

My golden-furred wolf dashed ahead, its huge frame now glowing with a fiery red under the moonlight. Its claws were sharp like sickles, teeth shining bright, and its whip-like tail was way more frightening than Lina's. I could feel my innocence turning to dust, and my name—Rebecca—was erased. My spirit felt like a bottomless pit, and my will was burning with a twisted fury. "I am Veyra," I yelled, my blood-red eyes glowing, the amulet pulsing softly against my chest. My cruelty was relentless; any love I had for Harriet had vanished, replaced by an insatiable thirst for power, a desire to crush her beneath my feet and build my own empire.

Chapter 5: The Tyrant’s Return

I crashed into the giant cabin, my massive wolf, draped in blood-red fur, taking over the fire-lit room. My fierce blood-red eyes lit up the space, making the air feel electric, while my female member pulsed in my human form. The Versace leather dress hugged my toned muscles, and my Givenchy boots thudded on the floor as my blood-red hair sparkled in the flickering light. Maria had her dark braid shaking as her black-furred wolf cowered close by; Elise's platinum bob was shaky, and her silver-furred wolf trembled beside her. Claire's damp russet hair blended with her tense russet-furred wolf. Tara kept her chestnut ponytail loose, her gray-furred wolf flat against the ground. Sarah's auburn hair, Lena's coiled black curls, and Mia's golden braid all bowed in respect, their eyes wide with fear. Lina’s wolf growled fiercely, her wild raven-black hair framing her face, with those defiant molten-amber eyes locked on me. Her worn leather jacket was torn, and her female member didn’t measure up to mine. Harriet’s black-furred wolf froze, her messy jet-black hair contrasting sharply with her vacant amber stare; her ripped Armani blazer barely held together as she staggered in her Louboutin heels. 'Rebecca, what—' she started, but I lunged forward, my claws slicing her arm, blood oozing out. My voice rolled like thunder. 'I am Veyra, your alpha, you miserable bitch!'

Lina gasped, her voice faltering, "You... not alpha." The black-furred wolf surged forward, its claws barely grazing my side, the blood-red strands of fur becoming tangled. I forced her down, my own blood-red-furred wolf overbearing her, my male appendage pressing against her, my fangs ripping into her shoulder, blood splattering everywhere, her molten-amber gaze dimming. "You’re nothing!" I roared, my claws raking across her chest while the amulet on my neck glowed with intensity, my cruelty burning fiercely. Harriet's black-furred wolf whined softly, her amber eyes vacant, "Rebecca, I love you," she gasped. I laughed derisively, my blood-red gaze ice-cold, my claws digging into her throat. "Love is dead, Harriet—submit or perish." The pack observed, their loyalty bound to me, my authority a tempest, Lina's raven-black hair matted, Harriet's deep black locks entangled, my dominance unquestionable.

Chapter 6: The Collaring of the Fallen

The clearing resembled an ancient coliseum, the moonlight carving paths through the towering pines. The fireflies had vanished, leaving only the pack: Maria, Elise, Claire, Tara, Sarah, Lena, Mia—each pair of eyes fixed on us. Lina, with her jet-black fur in disarray and molten-amber eyes filled with defiance, shifted forms. Her female form exuded power, the thickening cock a symbol of dominance, claws glistening, tail thrashing. 'Submit, beta,' she growled, her wolf voice piercing through the night, rich with pheromones. My immense blood-red wolf surged forward, fiery eyes alight, claws unsheathed, fangs bared like weapons. 'I’ll rip your fucking soul out!' I roared, ignited by sadistic longing, my hatred for Harriet driving me onward. Lina’s claws raked across my flank, blood gushing, but I was larger, more formidable—my fangs tearing into her shoulder, her scream harmonizing with the chaos, my assertive cock pounding in rhythm. 'You’re nothing!' I shouted, pinning her to the ground, claws tearing into her chest, blood pooling, her molten-amber gaze dimming. Harriet’s pitch-black wolf stood on the sidelines, her amber gaze vacant, tangled jet-black hair a testament to her struggle, the Armani blazer now tattered. 'Rebecca, please stop,' she implored. I scoffed, my heart racing with primal fury.

I had Lina pinned down, my colossal wolf with blood-red fur overwhelming her black-furred form, my claws pressing against her throat, blood saturating the ground beneath us, her molten-amber eyes fading, female cock hanging limply. "You're finished," I hissed, a sadistic fire burning within me, the amulet shining brightly, my claim unyielding. I chose to spare her life, grabbing a leather collar and snapping it around her neck, her raven-black fur now matted. "My pet," I growled, her black-furred wolf whimpering, tail tucked low, spirit utterly shattered. "Rebecca, please," Harriet pleaded, the black-furred wolf bowing in submission, her amber eyes filled with compliance, jet-black hair a tangled mess. "My name is Veyra you worthless wretch," I snapped, my blood-red gaze burning fiercely, female cock throbbing, claws embedded in her arm, the hierarchy beneath my foot unmistakable. The pack—Claire, Maria, Elise, Tara, Sarah, Lena, Mia—knelt in unison, their howls echoing, illuminated by the stark moonlight, Lina’s history—her pack’s demise—reduced to dust, my reign everlasting, my will as strong as iron, the talisman’s murmur promising victories drenched in blood.

Chapter 7: The Tyrant’s Reign

The grand cabin thrummed with energy, the firelight flickering rhythmically. The pack had assembled. Dressed in sharp Versace leather and commanding Givenchy boots, my hair glimmered blood-red and my amulet pulsed softly. Harriet had submitted fully. 'Rebecca, you’re—' she whispered, her voice quivering. 'Veyra, your goddamn owner,' I growled, my cold blood-red eyes locking onto Maria as my claws pinned her to the wall. My female cock plunged into her with ruthless thrusts, my ebony braid swaying, her dark-brown eyes conceding, the black polo she wore torn apart as her moans echoed submission. Elise’s platinum bob quivered as she observed the scene. Lina’s black-furred wolf, collared, grovelled at my feet, her raven-black hair tangled, molten-amber eyes devoid of spirit as she scavenged for scraps—my beloved pet. 'Serve, bitch,' I commanded, relishing her whimper as a melody. Claire’s russet tresses, Tara’s chestnut ponytail, Sarah’s auburn strands, Lena’s black curls, and Mia’s blonde braid—all bowed in total loyalty, the pack ready for my influence.

At Visionary Media, I walked briskly alongside Harriet, the sound of my Givenchy boots echoing, my Versace gown shimmering under the lights, and my Balenciaga coat flowing elegantly. My blood-red gaze overshadowed her CEO status, a concealed threat lurking beneath my leather attire. 'We are building an empire,' I proclaimed, my claws grazing her neck, my skirt torn as I fucked her relentlessly against the desk. My hair twisted wildly around me, her amber eyes surrendering while her screams became my trophy, illuminated by the vibrant city lights and flickering fireflies, marking my ownership as a brand. 'The pack is expanding,' I promised, my sadistic dreams sprawling before me, Rochester shaking in fear, the talisman hinting at rival packs, cities ripe for conquest, and the blood that would be shed. 'You are nothing without me,' I spat, watching her amber eyes shatter, my cruelty becoming a crown, her love a mere memory, my dominance everlasting.

Chapter 8: The Empire’s Dawn

Beneath the moonlight, we stalked, my enormous wolf with blood-red fur at the forefront, while Harriet's black-furred companion followed closely, its amber eyes reflecting submission. The pack advanced—comprising Claire’s russet, Maria’s black, Elise’s silver, Tara’s gray, Sarah’s gray, Lena’s brown, and Mia’s white. Lina's black-furred wolf lingered at the back, collared and dull, a pet rather than a warrior.

I marked Julia—a nearby high school student of eighteen—biting her and sealing her as a new member of our pack. Her scream rang out like a hymn, a brown-furred wolf emerging, her wild brown hair and wide brown eyes signaling her transformation, the pack growing in strength. "What now, Veyra?" Harriet inquired in our cabin, her jet-black hair in disarray, amber eyes scanning eagerly. "Dominion," I spat as the fire crackled, fogging the windows, my amulet flickering with a dim light. "Rochester is merely the beginning," I growled, my blood-red gaze turbulent, my sadistic rule gaining momentum, the pack firmly under my control, with Harriet merely a specter and Lina a shattered plaything.

The moon glowed eerily, my red gaze signaling chaos, the amulet whispering about fierce enemies, packs to conquer, and cities ready to burn. I had Claire pinned against the rough cabin wall, her reddish hair messy, hazel eyes giving in, as my feminine energy claimed the space. Maria was watching with admiration, her black braid tight, deep brown eyes sparkling. Elise knelt close by, her blonde bob shaking, blue eyes showing her submission, while Tara’s brown ponytail hung low, her green eyes dimmed, the pack was coming together, and my power was growing. 'We’re gonna dominate' I declared, Harriet’s amber eyes lost, her black hair a tangled mess, my boot pushing down on her dreams, my name—Veyra—etched in red, a grim future looming, the amulet’s curse hinting at fights to come, my rule a relentless wave of red, limitless, forever, the essence of darkness.

[ravensolo77]

Guess who’s back…

“Hey, Bitch, guess who’s back in town.”

“Bobbi! No, that’s not possible. Robert got rid of all the Elixir after last time.”

“Poor, sweet, stupid Robert; he’ll never get rid of me. I stashed Elixir in all sorts of secret places. He thought he was making himself a protein shake this morning. Imagine his surprise when his dick started to shrink and he started to orgasm as me.”

“So the protein powder; you dehydrated the Elixir in there?”

“Laney, I put it in so many things, you’ll never find it all. Why are you so worried? We had a blast last time.”

“I was a total slut thanks to you. I feel awful for cheating on Robert.”

“You didn’t cheat on him per se since he’s still me.”

“Grey area and you know it, Bitch.”

“What? You didn’t tell Robert about all the fun we had last time.”

“Fuck no!”

“You didn’t tell him you can take my entire fist in your wet needy pussy.”

“No!”

“You didn’t tell him you can take two guys at once now. Not just any guys, two big black guys.”

“Never! You told me he won’t remember anything from the time he’s you.”

“He doesn’t. Not details, anyway.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He remembers sensations. He remembers erotic delight and hedonistic abandon. You seriously didn’t tell him you tried cocaine by sniffing it off my mound?”

“No! Fuck, Bobbi, I almost fucking died that week.”

“That’s an exaggeration. You were no where close to dying. What’s the point in going that far anyway? There’s so much fun to be had while alive. So, you ready?”

“For what?”

“Another week with me. There was enough Elixir in that protein shake I should be here till next Sunday.”

“Seven fucking days. No. I can’t. I have work.”

“Call in sick. Robert already sent his boss an email taking bereavement leave.”

“What? Who died?”

“No one, silly. Now, go get ready.”

“For what?”

“I called some of my friends from the last time. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

“No. We’re not going to Cabo like last time. I’m not getting high. I’m not fucking anybody.”

“Please, Cabo was last time. This time we’re going to the Big Apple. We’re joining Tyrell and his entourage.”

“Ty?”

“Yeah, you remember Ty. He’s really excited to see you again. He said no white girl ever fucked him like, His Laney.”

“He said that?”

“Yeah. You made an impression. Hey, want to have some real fun? I mean balls to the wall, all-out, fucking insane.”

“I…”

“In your little black clutch that goes with your LBD perfectly, is a small vial of Elixir. I stashed it there last time. Why not walk on the wild side and see what Elixir brings out in Laney.”

“Robert is really gone for a week?”

“Yup.”

“You’re going with or without me, right?”

“Correct?”

“Well, then…

[ravensolo77]

The Beast I Became

The downpour was an unyielding foe, pounding against my windshield as I maneuvered my weary pickup down the lonely backroads of upstate New York. It was past midnight on a stormy November evening in 2025, the inky darkness wrapping around my chest like a living entity. I was Harry Talbot, 38 years old, a senior editor at Visionary Media, a well-regarded magazine publisher based in Rochester. My dark brown hair was thinning at the crown, and my beard was a light stubble I tended to daily; my blue flannel shirt and jeans were soaked from the rain seeping in through the truck’s worn seals. Fatigue clung to me after a lengthy editorial meeting, yet my thoughts drifted to Rebecca Penny, my colleague, whose striking green eyes and golden locks lingered in my mind. I had harbored feelings for her from a distance for years; my affection was a silent ache she remained blissfully unaware of, while her heart belonged to Tom Carver, a mechanic working at a garage close to our office.

Out of nowhere, she emerged—a specter caught in my headlights. A woman stumbled onto the pavement, her body mostly bare, the remnants of her black dress tattered and clinging to her figure. I slammed on the brakes, my truck skidding dangerously on the wet asphalt. She was frozen in place, shivering, her long black hair sticking to her face, amber eyes glowing like hot coals in the tempest's brief light. Her dress barely concealed her thighs, exposing a graceful, curvaceous form that awakened something instinctual within me, even as my mind was consumed by thoughts of Rebecca.

“Jesus, lady, you okay?” I shouted, rolling down the window. The rain devoured my voice. I stepped out, soaked instantly, the cold biting through my flannel. “Hey, can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

She whispered a string of words, a flow of sounds—maybe Slavic, or something even older, reminiscent of an ancient chant. Her voice was soft, mesmerizing, tinged with anxiety. She wrapped her arms tightly around her torso, trembling, her fair skin shining like polished stone. I knew I couldn’t abandon her out here.

“C’mon, get in,” I said, gesturing to the truck. She hesitated, then nodded, climbing into the passenger seat. Her scent hit me—wet earth, jasmine, a musky undertone that quickened my pulse, pushing thoughts of Rebecca aside. I shook it off. “Where do you live? Where’s home?”

She stared, amber eyes uncomprehending. I tried again, slower, but she shook her head, muttering in that alien tongue. No address, no phone, nothing. The storm roared, and I wasn’t about to abandon her.“Alright,” I sighed, starting the engine. “My place is a few miles out. You can dry off, and we’ll figure this out tomorrow.”

She didn’t protest as I drove to my small cabin on the edge of town, a one-room shack nestled among towering pines, its wooden walls a refuge from the world. Inside, the air was warm, a fire crackling in the hearth, casting flickering shadows. She stood dripping on my hardwood, her dress clinging to her full breasts and narrow waist, her amber eyes scanning the room like a trapped animal. “You must be freezing,” I said, grabbing a towel from the closet. “Want a shower? Warm up?”

She nodded, deciphering my words. I handed her the towel, expecting her to head to the bathroom. Instead, she dropped her dress, the wet fabric pooling at her feet. My breath caught. Her body was flawless—full breasts, narrow waist, hips flaring into long, toned legs, her pale skin glistening under the firelight. She met my gaze with a faint smirk, unashamed. “Shower,” she said, her voice thick with accent, and sauntered to the bathroom, leaving the door wide open.

I endeavored to play the gentleman, to look elsewhere, but couldn’t help but let my eyes wander. Through the slightly open door, I spotted her illuminated by the steam, her outline visible through the glass. Water flowed over her curves, her hands leisurely tracing her breasts and thighs, as if beckoning. My jeans constricted around me, and I forced myself to divert my gaze, grabbing a blanket for the couch, my thoughts caught between her alluring body and Rebecca’s distant smile. Her scent hung in the air, that haunting musky jasmine sticking with me.

She emerged, wrapped in my towel, her black hair damp and wild. I offered her a red flannel shirt. “Here, something dry.” She took it, her fingers brushing mine, sending a jolt through me. She slipped into the shirt, which hung loose on her lithe frame, the sleeves covering her hands, her legs bare, her movements fluid, almost predatory.

“What’s your name?” I inquired, tossing the blanket onto the couch where I intended to sleep. She pointed at herself. “Lina.” “Lina. I’m Harry.” I motioned towards the bed in the corner, its quilt frayed yet cozy. “You take the bed. I can manage here.” She shook her head, her gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that sent my heart racing. She took hold of my hand, her grip strong, and pulled me toward the bed. “No,” she stated firmly. “Together.” My throat constricted. “Listen, I’m not—”

She pressed a finger to my lips, her touch warm, insistent. “Safe,” she whispered, climbing into bed and patting the space beside her. Against every rational thought, I lay down, still in my blue flannel and jeans, keeping a foot of space between us. She curled close, her breath hot against my neck, her scent overwhelming, drowning out even Rebecca’s memory. But nothing happened—just the rain’s relentless rhythm and her steady breathing as she fell asleep.

Morning came, gray light filtering through the cabin’s windows, and the bed was empty. Lina was gone, no trace except the faint musk on my pillow. I rubbed my eyes, figuring she’d slipped out at dawn. Then I felt it—a sharp pain in my thigh, just above my groin. I yanked down my jeans and saw two puncture marks, red and swollen, like twin viper bites. My stomach twisted, a chill creeping up my spine. What had Lina done to me?

The marks didn’t heal, itching like a curse etched into my flesh. My body changed in ways that defied reason. My dark brown hair, once thinning, grew thick and unruly, spilling over my collar. My daily shave couldn’t tame the coarse beard sprouting overnight. My senses sharpened to an unnatural edge, as if the world had been stripped bare. At Visionary Media’s sleek office, where I wore a white dress shirt, navy tie, and black slacks, I could hear every sound through the wall separating my office from the women’s bathroom. One crisp November afternoon, I caught the soft moan of Rebecca Penny, my coworker and the object of my quiet, hopeless crush.

Rebecca, 32, had shoulder-length blonde hair, green eyes that sparkled with mischief, and a curvaceous figure that made my heart ache. Today, she wore a fitted red blouse and black skirt, her heels clicking as she moved through the office, her smile reserved for thoughts of Tom Carver, the mechanic at Carver’s Garage a block away.

Through the wall, I heard the faint buzz of her phone—porn, by the sound of it, a man’s voice groaning. Rebecca’s breathing was ragged, her fingers moving rhythmically, her moans barely muffled. “Oh, Tom,” she whispered, fantasizing about the tall, rugged mechanic with short brown hair and brown eyes, his oil-stained overalls a contrast to her polished elegance. Her scent—sweet, musky, laced with arousal—seeped through the wall, hitting me like a drug. My slacks tightened, my navy tie suddenly constricting. I gripped my desk, my crush on her a knife twisting deeper. She’d never looked at me the way she did Tom, her green eyes passing over me like I was invisible. I stayed in my office, pretending to review proofs, but her scent haunted me, fueling a hunger I couldn’t name.

“Harry, you okay?” Rebecca asked the next day, leaning over my desk, her red blouse dipping to reveal a hint of cleavage. Her perfume mixed with that musky undertone, driving me wild. “You’re looking… intense lately.”

I forced a smile, adjusting my tie, my voice rough. “Just deadlines, Becca.” But I heard her pulse quicken, smelled her arousal, a faint echo of her thoughts of Tom. It was maddening, my love for her a silent scream she’d never hear.

Tom was a constant presence, dropping by the office to fix staff cars, his brown eyes lingering on Rebecca. I saw him in the parking lot, his overalls smeared with grease, his gaze tracking her as she laughed, her blonde hair catching the November sun.

My heightened senses caught his desire—his heartbeat racing, his fantasies of her body against his—but mine were sharper, my longing for her a fire that consumed me. She smiled at him, her green eyes bright, and I turned away, my crush a weight I couldn’t shake.

The first full moon came in December, a frigid, snow-dusted night that felt like the world was holding its breath. Alone in my cabin, wearing a red flannel shirt and jeans, I felt my skin burn, a fever raging from the bite marks on my thigh. The pain erupted, spreading like wildfire. I stumbled to the mirror, my broad frame shrinking, chest swelling, waist cinching, jaw softening. I became Harriet—petite, dainty, yet curvaceous, with long dark hair and amber eyes that glowed like Lina’s. My red flannel hung loose, sleeves swallowing her delicate hands, jeans sagging at her narrow hips, but she was beautiful, radiating a raw, sexual allure that made my breath catch.

“What the hell is this?” I whispered, my voice sultry, still Harry’s mind trapped in this stranger’s body.

Then the pain surged again, sharper, like knives carving me from the inside. I screamed, collapsing as my bones cracked, reshaping. Black fur sprouted, tearing through the flannel’s seams, covering my arms, legs, and back. My ears lengthened, twitching, a bushy tail pushed free, swaying behind me. My hands became clawed, teeth sharpened into fangs, face elongating into a muzzle. I was on all fours, no longer a woman but a creature—beautiful, terrifying, a werewolf with a lithe, powerful body pulsing with primal energy. My tail swished, ears flicked, senses exploding, the world’s heartbeat pounding in my skull.

The cabin was a prison, its wooden walls closing in. I crashed through the door, snow cooling my black fur, and ran into the forest, the night air sharp and alive. Every sound—crickets, wind, the crunch of snow—was vivid. My nose twitched, catching a scent—sweet, musky, unmistakable. Rebecca. A pheromone pulsed from me, an invisible lure thickening the air, drawing her to me. I followed her scent, paws silent on the frozen earth, body moving with predatory grace, my heart aching with the hope she’d finally see me.

In a moonlit clearing, I found her with Tom, his overalls half-off, her red blouse torn, blonde hair glowing as she straddled him, her moans filling the air. My heart shattered, but my hunger surged. Tom saw me first—black fur, amber eyes, bushy tail swaying—his brown eyes widening in terror. “What the fuck!” he screamed, scrambling to his feet, fleeing into the night, leaving Rebecca alone, her breath hitching as she turned and saw me, a towering werewolf gleaming under the moon.

“Who… what are you?” she gasped, clutching her torn blouse, her black skirt hiked up.

I couldn’t speak, but my pheromone enveloped her, her green eyes glazing with primal lust, overriding her thoughts of Tom. She sank to the snowy ground, legs parting, skirt revealing her glistening pussy high on her inner thigh. “Please,” she whispered, voice trembling, “touch me.” My heart raced—she was mine, even if only for this moment.

I lowered my muzzle, breath hot against her thighs, and licked her, my rough tongue gliding over her folds. She moaned, hips bucking, hands tangling in my black fur. “Oh, God, yes,” she gasped, her voice raw. I lapped slowly, then faster, savoring her sweet, musky taste, her scent driving me wild. Her cries peaked, her orgasm shuddering through her like a storm, juices coating my muzzle, her body arching under the moon.

As she lay panting, I moved to her upper thigh, fangs grazing where her skirt would hide the mark. I bit her, deep enough to mark but not to kill, her blood warm on my tongue. She cried out, pain and pleasure mingling, her green eyes locked on my amber ones. I pulled back, my heart pounding with possession, then vanished into the night, her scent a vow etched into my soul, my love for her burning brighter.

I woke in my cabin, naked, human, male, the snow-dappled dawn casting pale light through the windows. My red flannel and jeans lay shredded, a testament to the night’s transformation. My beard was thicker, senses razor-sharp, the hunger a gnawing beast in my chest. At Visionary Media, in a white dress shirt, red tie, and gray slacks, I saw Rebecca, her red blouse and black skirt concealing a bandage high on her thigh. Her scent pulled at me, her green eyes curious, searching, as if she sensed me in that clearing. My crush deepened, a hopeless longing now laced with possession.

“Harry, you feeling okay?” she asked, leaning close over my desk, her touch electric through my sleeve. “You seem… different lately.”

I smirked, adjusting my tie, voice rough. “Just burning the midnight oil, Becca.” Her pulse quickened, her arousal a faint echo of last night, but her thoughts drifted to Tom, her smile softening at his name. It stung, but I hid it, my hunger for her a secret I’d carry alone.

Tom was at his garage, his brown hair mussed, overalls stained, his brown eyes distant. I passed by on my lunch break, my senses catching his fear from the clearing, his confusion mingling with his longing for Rebecca. He didn’t know I’d claimed her, but I saw her visit him, her red blouse bright against the garage’s grime, her laugh for him a dagger in my chest.

January brought the second full moon, a bitter cold night that crackled with anticipation. In my cabin, wearing a green flannel and jeans, I shifted into Harriet, my clothes loose on her dainty frame, then into the werewolf, black fur sprouting, tail swaying, ears twitching. Rebecca arrived, drawn by instinct, her blonde hair loose under a gray sweatshirt, jeans hugging her curves. Her body convulsed, blonde fur sprouting, green eyes glowing as she became a werewolf—sleek, female, her gender unchanged by the bite, but her form magnificent, lithe and fierce. She whimpered, tail low, recognizing me.

“You,” she growled, her voice rough. “It was you in the woods.”

I stalked closer, my pheromone thickening the air, my amber eyes burning with love and dominance. “I’m your alpha, Rebecca,” I rumbled, tail swishing. “Run with me.”

We hunted through the snowy forest, our howls echoing under the moon, the thrill of the chase binding us. Rebecca was fast, but I was faster, pinning her when she stumbled, my teeth at her throat. “You obey me,” I snarled, my love for her a fierce undercurrent. She nodded, green eyes wide, and I took her, my muzzle between her legs, licking her until she howled her climax, her blonde fur shuddering beneath me.

With her bare skin against the cold snow, she held onto me, her lips pressed to mine while her hands roamed over my feminine curves, as we lay together with her on top of me.

“Harry… or whoever you are,” she whispered, voice raw, her green eyes searching mine.

As I kissed her passionately, my fingers caressing her skin, I murmured, "Harriet, when I feel like this, you’re truly mine, Becca." My heart soared with excitement—she was with me, despite her lingering feelings for Tom.

The pack grew, each bite a step toward my empire. In February, I bit Claire, 25, a barista with short red hair, wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, during a late-night run through the woods. Her russet-furred wolf was compact, agile, her human form unchanged, her brown eyes submissive.

In March, I bit Maria, 30, a security guard with long black hair, in a gray blazer and slacks, during a patrol. Her black-furred wolf was muscular, fierce, her dark eyes yielding to me.

Both women remained female, their wolves extensions of their human selves, but they bowed to my alpha, their fear palpable. Only Rebecca, with her blonde hair and green eyes, was my kin, her scent a haven amid my growing ruthlessness.

As Harry, in white shirts and ties, I played my role at work, but Harriet’s pull strengthened. Rebecca and I fucked in my office, her gray sweater and skirt hiked up, her moans echoing as I claimed her, my red tie loosened, my love for her a fire that burned through my restraint. “You’re changing,” she said, lips on mine, her fingers tracing my chest. I bit her lip, tasting blood, my hunger for her insatiable, even as she spoke of Tom, her green eyes softening.

“You’ll see the real me soon,” I growled, my heart aching with the hope she’d love me as Harriet.

The third full moon in February sealed my fate. I woke as Harriet, permanently—petite, long dark hair, amber eyes, my male body gone. My red flannel loose, I shed it for a tailored navy dress, my first purchase with my own money, but I craved more. At work, I passed as Harry’s twin sister, taking his desk, his life. Rumors of his plane crash swirled, and I let them, my lips curling into a smile. Rebecca moved into my cabin, our bed a sanctuary where we made love nightly, her blonde hair splayed across my pillow, her green eyes locked on my amber ones, my crush now a bond she returned, though Tom’s shadow lingered.

In April, Ethan Caldwell, 45, a millionaire investor with short blond hair, blue eyes, and a charcoal suit, visited Visionary Media to discuss a partnership. As Harriet, in a silk emerald dress that hugged my curves, I met him, my amber eyes locking on his, sensing his wealth and weakness.“Ms. Talbot, you’re… breathtaking,” he said, his handshake lingering, his blue eyes hungry.“Harriet,” I purred, leaning closer. “Dinner?”

We dined at a candlelit restaurant, his suit crisp, my emerald dress drawing his gaze. His confidence amused me, unaware of the predator beneath my smile. After dinner, we walked the woods near my cabin, the May full moon rising, its light silver on the snow. I kissed him, lips fierce, tearing at his suit, fucking him in a clearing, my dress hiked up, his hands gripping my hips, our bodies moving in frantic rhythm. As he gasped beneath me, the moon’s pull hit, my bones cracking, black fur sprouting, tail swaying, ears twitching. I shifted, pinning him, my werewolf form towering, claws digging into his shoulders.

“No!” he screamed, but I bit his thigh, fangs piercing where his suit tore, his blood warm. He survived, and the next moon, he transformed—not into a male wolf, but a silver-furred female, blue eyes glowing, lithe and fierce. By the third moon, Ethan was gone, replaced by Elise, 30, with long blonde hair, blue eyes, in a white dress, her memories intact but her loyalty mine.

“Harriet, I was… I had everything,” she stammered in my cabin, her voice trembling.

I cradled her face, our lips grazing lightly. "Now I'm yours, and you have the sisters in the pack." I declared, kissing her passionately. She hesitated at first, but then surrendered, my tongue seeking out her depths, her soft moans confirming her surrender. Elise’s wealth had become mine, allowing me to purchase a vast five-bedroom lodge in the woods, a sanctuary for the pack to reside, train, and hunt. Yet, Rebecca and I chose to remain in our cozy cabin, our bed a realm of affection, her fragrance grounding me.

Tom lingered in my mind, his existence a threat to my bond with Rebecca. In June, I discovered him in his garage, his tousled brown hair, stained overalls, and distant brown eyes lost in thoughts of Rebecca. I enticed him into the woods beneath the shimmering full moon, my sleek black fur gleaming, my scent drawing him near. He stiffened, recognizing me from the clearing, his fear unmistakable. I darted forward, sinking my fangs into his thigh, marking him as mine. He screamed and crumpled to the ground, yet he lived. By the next full moon, he had transformed into a gray-furred female werewolf, her glowing brown eyes devoid of his former self. By the third moon, Tom had become Tara, 40, sporting long brown hair and dressed in a blue top and jeans, her human physique curvaceous and her loyalty unwavering. 'Harriet, I... adored her,' Tara murmured, her eyes filled with memories of Rebecca. 'She belongs to me,' I rumbled, my claws brushing her cheek in a display of dominance. Tara nodded, her once vivid fantasies of Rebecca now fading, her gray wolf form yielding to my authoritative black fur.

Thanks to Elise's funding, I acquired Visionary Media in August, pushing Greg, a balding jerk dressed in an ill-fitting suit, out of the way. Clad in a custom black gown bought with Elise's riches, I entered the boardroom, my presence cutting like a knife. "Gentlemen," I stated, my voice smooth yet firm, "I am your new CEO."

Silence enveloped the room. In the corner, Rebecca, now my aide, wore a sly smile, her teal dress accentuating her figure, with a scent that lingered alluringly. Hours later, we were caught in passion on my desk, her dress pulled up, revealing her thighs, my bite on her skin a mark of our connection.

"You belong to me," I murmured, my tongue driving her to ecstasy, her cries resonating with devotion, my love for her a flame that dispelled Tom's lingering presence.

The pack grew to fifteen, all women—some born female, like Claire and Maria, others transformed, like Elise and Tara. My cruelty surged, sparing only Rebecca. Tara defied me once, her gray fur bristling; I ripped into her, claws tearing, her screams a lesson. Claire hesitated, her russet fur quivering; I bloodied her, her whimpers fueling my dominance. Maria challenged me, her black fur snarling; I broke her, leaving her submissive. The pack feared me, their howls a testament to my rule, but Rebecca was my haven, her blonde fur warm against my black, her green eyes softening my ruthlessness.

In our small cabin, we made love nightly, her teal dress discarded, her blonde hair splayed across my chest, her green eyes locked on my amber ones. “Harriet, what’s next?” she asked, fingers tracing my skin, her love a balm to my cruelty.“The world,” I said, fangs glinting, my ambition boundless. “We’ll take it all.”She kissed me, hands igniting my hunger, our bodies moving in sync, her moans a vow of loyalty. Lina’s bite had birthed a monster, but Rebecca’s love made me whole. I was Harriet, the alpha, and the night was mine.

[ravensolo77]

A New Empire.(A Skin Suit Story)

Springfield’s neon-soaked streets pulse with sin, a city begging to be claimed. In a grimy workshop behind a boarded-up pawn shop, Damien, 19, a wiry tech prodigy with braided dark brown hair, smudged glasses, and electric blue eyes, hunches over a workbench littered with wires and tools. His light gray hoodie, frayed at the cuffs, clings to his frame as he tweaks the skin suit gun, an obsidian-black pistol with a green emitter that hums like a venomous heartbeat. It can collapse a person into a deflated, wearable costume—limp as a Halloween mask, flat as a deflated basketball, ready for inhabitation.

“Damien, you’re obsessed,” Bruce, 18, muscular, with short brown hair and skeptical brown eyes, says, leaning against a crate in a black t-shirt and jeans, twirling a screwdriver. “This gun’s some sci-fi nightmare.”

Damien’s smile is wild, his glasses catching the eerie green light of the weapon. "It’s all about power, Bruce. Just watch." He points toward a crate filled with three deflated animal skin suits: a gray feline, a shaggy brown canine, and a thin rat, all lifeless, their zippers shining. Close by, Damien secures a sleek black control collar with pulsating red lights around the neck of the cat suit. "Whiskers, sit," he laughs as the red glow grows stronger, envisioning complete control. The suit remains completely still, still deflated. Bruce watches, feeling unsettled. "Those collars are unsettling, man. What’s the game plan?"

“Control,” Damien says, eyes gleaming. “Imagine it on her.” He points to a newspaper clipping: Amanda Collins, 18, Springfield Community College cheerleader, the city’s purest soul. Her shoulder-length blonde hair, tied with a blue scrunchie, frames emerald eyes and fair skin. Her sleeveless white-and-blue “Spartans” uniform clings to her lithe frame. Headlines laud her public purity pledge, a vow of virginity that’s made her a local saint. “She’s perfect,” Damien murmurs.

Bruce shifts, wary. “She’s untouchable, Damien. This feels wrong.”

“Wrong’s for losers,” Damien snaps, gripping the gun. “You in or out?”

That night, Springfield Community College’s library hums with quiet. Amanda sits at an oak table, engrossed in a biology textbook, blonde hair loose, scrunchie frayed, emerald eyes scanning pages. Her “Spartans” uniform—fitted top, pleated skirt, white sneakers—radiates innocence. Behind a bookshelf, Damien crouches, skin suit gun humming. Bruce whispers, “You sure?”

Shut up,” Damien hisses, firing. A green beam engulfs Amanda, her gasp cut short as she collapses into a deflated skin suit—limp, blonde hair splayed, uniform crumpled, zipper glinting, like a deflated basketball.

Holy shit,” Bruce breathes, stepping closer. The suit’s fair skin is flexible, emerald eyes flat, eerie.

“Put it on,” Damien urges, voice low. Bruce hesitates, then unzips the suit, sliding inside. The skin stretches, hair aligns, eyes fill. The “Spartans” uniform inflates, curves forming. Bruce, now Amanda, stands, hands tracing the skirt, staring at a window reflection. “I’m… her,” he says, voice soft, feminine, Amanda’s. His eyes flicker, a smirk forming. “This is wild.” Now they had to test and make sure that it was lifelike. Bruce, now Amanda, headed to the sorority house for a party.

Inside Sigma Kappa's sorority house, a pulsating party ignites with electrifying bass and sweat. Bruce, in Amanda's body and dressed in a 'Spartans' outfit, sways gracefully, his blonde locks cascading, and his emerald eyes dancing over the crowd. He spots Derek Appleton, an 18-year-old towering black freshman quarterback with closely cropped hair, warm brown eyes, and a sculpted physique clad in a red jersey and jeans. Flirting, Bruce bats his lashes and lightly brushes against Derek's arm. "You're the star of the show, our future quarterback," he coos, Amanda's tone sweet like honey. " How would you like to take me upstairs and fuck me? Be my first?" Derek grins, leaning in closer. "And you are definitely trouble, Collins. I thought you were all about being pure." "I'm feeling a little bit naughty tonight," Bruce in Amanda's body smiled. "So, stud, you up for it?"

The playful allure intensifies, Bruce's caresses becoming more daring, while Amanda's naivety conceals her true self. Ascending to a softly lit bedroom, they tumble onto the bed, their clothes cast aside. Bruce, embodying Amanda, relinquishes her virginity to Derek, breaking her vow of purity. As they reach their climax, a powerful sensation envelops the skin suit, locking Bruce within forever. Amanda’s presence surges forth, a sinister chuckle escaping her lips. "Worship me, Derek," he purrs, his tone alluring. "My pussy is exquisite." Derek, captivated, complies,Leaning in between her legs and licking her pussy clean of their combined sex juices. His loyalty solidified. Bruce fades away. An evil Amanda, now coming through.

The now malevolent Amanda drives toward her grand mansion, a vast estate adorned with elegant marble floors and sparkling chandeliers. In her opulent bedroom, she rummages through her vanity, transforming her blonde hair into a deep crimson—a symbol of her wickedness. Applying striking makeup with bold red lipstick and dark eyeliner, she discovers a Halloween outfit: a sleek black leather corset with a gold zipper, fitting pants, ankle boots, and a shimmering gold choker. Gazing at her reflection, Amanda sees her transformed self and smirks with malicious delight. 'Just wait until they see this.' Now, it's time to find Damien.

At Damien's workshop, Amanda (Bruce is out, and the wicked Amanda persona has emerged) walks in with confidence, her crimson hair shimmering, leather making soft creaking sounds, and her emerald eyes glinting with a predatory gaze. Damien, engrossed in his soldering, looks up, his jaw hanging open. "Whoa, Bruce, what on earth happened?"

“Just call me Amanda,” she says with a sultry smile, stepping closer. “I’ve got the suit sealed, Damien. Derek’s a wild ride.” Damien's eyes go wide as he puts the pieces together—sex is what sealed the suit. Before he can say a word, Amanda kneels down, loosening his jeans. “Just relax, genius,” she whispers, her lips moving skillfully. Damien gasps and slumps back, surrendering. Amanda rises, grabbing the skin suit gun. “We’re aiming high, Damien. Gangsters, mobsters, and killers—they’ll pay top dollar to swap their records for bodies like this.” She gestures to her enticing figure, a smirk on her lips. “Those collars? They belong to us.”

Damien, bewildered, stutters, "That’s… unbelievable." "Unbelievable is the objective," Amanda retorts, her crimson streaks glowing bright. Bruce's recollections lead her—she remembers the red-flashing collars’ controls. "Dive into the dark web. Market the suits. Huge profits await."

Hesitantly, Damien shares a message on a dark web forum while the menacing Amanda looms behind him, advertising bespoke skin suits. The replies surge from vengeful criminals, all willing to invest in fresh identities.

Vito Vento, 45, a mob enforcer with graying black hair, dark brown eyes, and a scarred face, in a cheap black suit, wants Heather Blanton, 28, a police officer. Heather arrested Vito, sending him to prison for five years, costing him his wife and kids. “I’ll ruin her,” Vito growls, wiring cash.

Eddie Malone, 45, a con artist with slicked-back graying hair and green eyes, in a purple polyester suit, targets Melissa Goodson, 30, a lawyer. Melissa defended Eddie’s rival, bankrupting him. “She’ll pay,” Eddie sneers, sending payment.

Frank Carver, 60, a bald crime lord with gray eyes, in a tailored black suit, seeks Olivia Reed, 35, a judge. Olivia sentenced Frank to 20 years, gutting his empire. “I’ll break her,” Frank vows, transferring funds.

Rico Torres, 40, a drug runner with slicked-back black hair, dark brown eyes, and tattoos, in a leather jacket, demands Cassandra Jenkins, 18, the mayor’s daughter. Her father’s anti-drug policies crushed Rico’s trade. “She’s mine,” Rico hisses, paying up.

Joey "the rat" Moretti, 38, a mob informant with thinning brown hair and hazel eyes, in a gray tracksuit, chooses Isabella Marchetti, 23, daughter of mob boss Vincenzo Marchetti, 50. Joey betrayed Vincenzo, earning a death sentence. “Her skin saves me,” Joey mutters, wiring money.

In a rain-soaked alley, Heather passes her cruiser, her dark ponytail pulled back neatly, hazel eyes sharp and intent, her fair skin flushed beneath the navy uniform of the Springfield PD.

Amanda emerges, clad in gleaming leather, her weapon drawn. 'Your time is over, officer,' she sneers, squeezing the trigger. Heather collapses into a deflated suit, her ponytail splayed, uniform creased. Vito strides over with cash in hand, slipping into the suit. The fabric stretches, the ponytail straightens, and hazel eyes blink awake. As Vito reshapes himself, Amanda snaps a red-glowing collar around his neck. His gaze turns blank, a sinister expression surfacing as he morphs into Heather permanently, now under Amanda's control. 'Welcome to the team, Vixen,' Amanda comments. Heather, now Vito in disguise, saunters towards a strip club, badge askew, uniform suggestive, playing her part in Amanda's scheme. By day, she would be police officer Heather; by night, the irresistible vixen on stage, working to lure more recruits for Amanda's burgeoning army.

In a sleek law office, Melissa reviews files, auburn bob neat, brown eyes focused behind glasses, fair skin in a gray tailored suit. Amanda slips in, gun gleaming. “New deal,” she says, firing the gun.

Melissa’s suit collapses, bob splayed. Eddie inhabits it, auburn hair aligning. Amanda locks a red-pulsing collar, Eddie’s eyes glazing, evil glare emerging. “Seduce your clients, Melissa,” Amanda commands, turning her into a corrupt dealmaker.

In a courtroom, Olivia presides, dark brown hair in a bun, blue eyes stern, fair skin under black robes. Amanda, in the gallery, fires. Olivia’s robes crumple into a deflated suit.

Frank rushes in, the robes billowing around him. Amanda strikes a red-glowing collar, causing Frank's eyes to dull and a sinister glare to emerge. "Dominate the streets, Heartbreaker," Amanda commands, establishing herself as the biker queen. She leverages her gang to distribute drugs and execute bank heists, fueling the coffers of Amanda's new empire.

At a charity gala, Cassandra chats, tight black curls neat, brown eyes warm, ebony skin glowing in a yellow sundress. Amanda fires, reducing Cassandra to a deflated suit, curls splayed.

Rico inhabits it, sundress inflating. Amanda locks a red-pulsing collar, Rico’s eyes glazing, evil glare emerging. “Work the streets, Cassandra,” Amanda says, turning her into an 18-year-old African-American streetwalker, dressed in a tight miniskirt, crop top, and heels.

In a penthouse, Isabella, cute and innocent at 23, studies law, raven-black hair in a ponytail, midnight-blue eyes focused, olive skin in a navy tailored suit. Amanda breaks in, firing. Isabella’s suit collapses, ponytail splayed.

Joey rushes in, Isabella's body puffing up. Amanda slaps a red-glowing collar on her, causing Joey's eyes to glaze over, a sinister look developing. "Eliminate your father, Isabella," Amanda orders. Fast forward a few months. Isabella, with Joey in control, takes out Vincenzo and all his top aides, stepping into the limelight as a mob queen in a chic black dress, diamonds sparkling.

Amanda returns to Derek’s apartment, where he lounges in his red jersey. “Miss me, baby?” she purrs, crimson-streaked hair glowing. Before he can respond, she slaps a red-pulsing collar on his neck, his eyes glazing, now her servant. “You’re mine, Derek,” she says, smirking.

Dragging Derek along, Amanda bursts into Damien’s workshop. "This ends now," she asserts. She pulls the trigger, leaving Damien as nothing more than a crumpled heap in his worn jeans and tattered hoodie. Then she entices Jessica, her former best friend. At 18, Jessica is an artist, with gentle brown curls, warm brown eyes, and a fair complexion, dressed in a paint-stained smock over a gray dress. When Jessica arrives, Amanda uses the gun to turn her into a skin suit.

Jessica now a wrinkled skin suit, her body splayed out lazily. Amanda then lifts Damien's lifeless body and places inside of Jessica. She points a gun at the remains of Damien, magically reviving the suit. Amanda directs Derek to fuck Jessica to keep her contained within the suit. This destoys Damien, but Amanda longs for his intellect, so when she slips the collar around Jessica's neck, she intends to transfer that knowledge to her. They retreat to a shadowy alcove, their garments rustling softly with each movement. After their encounter, Amanda fastens a glowing red collar around Jessica's neck, a sinister grin forming on her lips. 'Shape my destiny, Jessica,' Amanda commands, transforming her into both her lover and the mastermind she requires to further her empire. She then uses the naked body of Jessica, making sure Jessica eats out her pussy, showing her dominance, and then reciprocating to Jessica. A new love is forming, but it's not mutual, it's mistress and servant.

Amidst the pouring rain on a Springfield rooftop, Amanda stands victorious, her leather attire shimmering as her crimson hair whips in the wind, emerald eyes aglow and her red-light collar radiating power. Kneeling before her are Heather, Melissa, Olivia, Cassandra, Isabella, Jessica, and Derek, their own collars pulsating red as their malevolent gazes reflect Amanda's dominance. Below them, the flickering skyline of Springfield lies, a city under her reign. "This is my domain," Amanda proclaims, her voice resonating with a sinister promise.

[ravensolo77]

It was a Terrible Life but Now?

The wind howled along the riverbank, tugging at my worn coat as I stood at the frigid edge. At forty-nine, I felt like a specter—my hair a faded gray, my face etched with sorrow, and my eyes clouded by whiskey that had lost its power to numb. Three years had passed since Ellen left me for some fitness enthusiast, taking Sarah and Jake with her, who now ignore my calls. Even my lifelong friends abandoned me, tired of my drunken tirades. I was fired from the warehouse for arriving reeking of bourbon, and no one would hire a failure like me. Alcohol, my last companion, had betrayed me, leaving me empty inside. Tonight, I resolved, was the end of it all. The river roiled darkly beneath me, its icy allure softly beckoning me toward oblivion.

I paused for a moment, weighing the decision to leap, when a voice pierced through the howling wind. "What are you trying to accomplish?" I turned abruptly, nearly losing my footing. A woman appeared, illuminated by a dim streetlamp. She was breathtaking—dark hair cascading over a luxurious fur coat, lips as crimson as blood, and eyes gleaming with a timeless allure. "Tell me," she urged, stepping into my space, her fragrance—jasmine mingled with smoke—overwhelming me like an intoxicant. "Get lost," I snapped, my throat aching. "This isn’t your concern." Yet her gaze ensnared me, and I found myself revealing everything—the affair with Ellen, the silence from my kids, friends who vanished, unemployment, and the alcohol that betrayed me. "Everyone has abandoned me," I concluded, my voice breaking. "Even God." Her smile was sharp, almost sinister. "God doesn’t matter. I can help you." I let out a bitter laugh. "Help me? My life’s a disaster zone." Her tone turned smooth, coaxing. "Not help. Rebuild. Give me a month, and your life will improve a hundredfold. Do we have a deal?" With nothing left to hold on to, I murmured, "Fine." She extended a gloved hand. As I accepted it, my surroundings faded away.

I blinked, and the cold was gone. Warmth wrapped around me, thick with cedar and something metallic, like blood. I stood in a grand hall—chandeliers dripping crystal, velvet walls writhing with silver threads, a roaring fireplace casting shadows that danced like demons. The woman, Seraphine, gestured to a velvet chair carved with snakes. “Sit.”

I collapsed, dazed. She poured wine, dark as ink, and handed me a glass. “Drink. Relax.” Her black dress clung to her like night, her eyes piercing. “What is this place?” I rasped. “What’re you doing to me?” She pulled a silver talisman, etched with pulsing symbols. “Remaking you,” she purred.

Her ancient chant resonated, thick with power, as the talisman blazed to life in a brilliant green hue. A searing sensation swept across my scalp, and I inhaled sharply as my thinning hair regained its volume, transforming into fierce, fiery red waves that cascaded around my neck like molten lava. My arms transformed, the scars smoothing into soft, pale skin; my hands shrank, the nails shining brightly. My legs became more slender, the hair fading away, my thighs curving gently. A weighty sensation enveloped my chest, and as I clutched it, I felt my breasts swell, heavy and full, ripping through my shirt seams. My hips broadened while my waist shrank, my face evolving—my jaw softening, lips puffing, eyes igniting into a vibrant emerald green. Suddenly, a sharp pull at my groin signaled the disappearance of my cock, replaced by a warm, sensitive new presence. I stumbled towards a mirror, my boots feeling awkward beneath me.

The figure in the mirror was a stranger to me. She was divine—skin as smooth as porcelain, hair a fiery red, lips painted in shades of crimson, and eyes that could bring about destruction. My outfit hung awkwardly on me, tattered and loose. "What the hell have you done?" I interrogated, my tone sultry and low. Seraphine grinned mischievously. "You are now Mara. Your mission: bring joy to fifteen individuals. Introduce them to a fresh start. Achieve this, and your happiness will be true"

laughed, sharp and bitter. “Happy? I don’t know who I am!” She rose, her dress whispering. “You’ll learn. Clothes, money, phone with profiles—start tomorrow.” She vanished into shadows, leaving me alone.

I woke in a bedroom, silk sheets cool against my new skin. Sunlight poured through windows, illuminating a canopy bed draped in crimson velvet. A wardrobe overflowed with dresses, blouses, heels. My phone buzzed—Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, profiles showcasing me: Mara, 28, a “free spirit.” I ran my fingers through my red hair, its weight thrilling. “Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s try this.”

My first date was Ethan, a nervous accountant with big glasses. At a bistro, I wore a white dress, soft and modest, my red hair loose, framing my face like a halo. I felt innocent, curious. “You’re cute when you blush,” I teased, brushing his hand, his shiver sparking something in me. Over dessert, I leaned close, whispering, “Come to your place. Show me you.” In his apartment, passion took over. I pushed him onto the bed, my dress pooling as I straddled him, my red hair spilling like fire. His hands trembled, peeling away my dress, revealing my breasts, my skin. I guided him, nails grazing his chest, our sex raw, urgent, my moans new and wild. I left him grinning, reborn. “You’re incredible, Mara,” he said. I kissed his cheek, heart pounding with joy.

Then Claire, an 18-year-old painter, fresh from high school, her loft a mess of canvases. I wore a blue sweater, jeans, my red hair braided, my eyes soft. “You’re too talented to hide,” I said, touching her wrist as we picked out brushes. That night, I posed naked on her couch, my red hair stark against my skin. “Paint me,” I urged. Her painting was vivid, my form in crimson and gold. We fucked on the paint-splattered floor, my nails trailing her back, her gasps desperate. “I’ve never felt this,” she whispered, clinging to me. I stroked her hair. “You’re special, Claire.” She texted me the next day: “I can’t stop thinking about you.” I sent sweet replies—“You’re on my mind, sweetheart”—keeping her close, not knowing why.

Ryan, a 35-year-old attorney, was the next one I encountered, his eyes tinged with shadow. I met him at a rooftop lounge dressed in a green gown, my red locks shimmering in the moonlight. As we swayed to the music, he confided how deeply he loathed his profession. 'Let it go,' I urged, steering him into a secluded corner, loosening his belt, my lips on his neck. We made love against the wall, raw and fervent, his hands gripping my hips tightly, my teeth grazing his shoulder. 'Leave that job behind,' I murmured. He did, expressing his gratitude to me later.

On my fifth date, I met Lila, a nurse by trade, and I underwent an astonishing transformation. My wardrobe shifted to fitted styles, bursting with striking black and crimson hues, and I sported bolder heels while my red hair was impeccably styled. We hit the dance floor, my red dress hugging my curves, every motion intentional. In the club's restroom, I pushed her against the wall, our lips meeting in a fervent kiss, her soft moans filling the air. 'You're mine tonight,' I whispered. Her response, 'You've helped me recognize my value,' grated on my nerves. 'Don't get too cozy,' I snapped, turning away and leaving her in tears.

Theo, a musician, was my tenth date. Gone was my naivete. My hair shifted to a dark crimson hue, my attire morphed into leather and corsets, and my makeup transformed—featuring striking winged eyeliner and deeper lip colors. We spent the night together in his studio, my nails leaving marks, yet his overly sweet messages began to annoy me. 'Your music is awful,' I texted, laughing as he crumbled.

On the thirteenth, Zoe, the dancer, I transformed into a different person. My hair shone black-red, slick and fierce, while my black leather dress became my armor. In a studio surrounded by mirrors, we made love, our bodies slick with sweat and our breaths clouding the glass. "You’re a deity," she whispered. I began to spread whispers that she had climbed the ranks by sleeping her way into parts, enjoying the chaos it caused.

As each day went by, I felt myself descending further into a void. It thrilled me to reduce the people I dated to mere echoes of who they once were. This control ignited my feeling of dominance. Diminishing them made me feel more regal with each passing day. Yet, my mind couldn't help but drift towards Claire.

Claire lingered in my thoughts—not out of love, but out of power. I kept her enchanted with messages—'Thinking of you, my creative soul'—and she idolized me, so young and innocent. When I summoned her to the mansion, she abandoned everything, leaving her studio in disarray, paints still fresh, rushing to my side. I awaited her in a flowing black silk gown, my dark-red hair cascading down. 'How much do you desire me, Claire?' I inquired as I circled around her.

Each day,” she murmured, quivering with excitement. “I belong to you, completely devoted.” A sly smile spread across my face as I handed her a new outfit—a revealing black dress, accentuated by a silver-thorned choker, declaring her as mine. In a luxurious marble tub, she washed my hair with tender hands, her fingertips dancing on my skin, admiration shining in her eyes. She poured her college savings into my wardrobe—elegant dresses, dazzling jewels, high heels—her own aspirations left behind.

In the grand estate, my heels clack against the floor, with Claire following closely, lugging my bag behind her. Seraphine emerged, her expression mischievous. "Fifteen lives transformed," she remarked. "And what about mine?" I inquired, flipping my dark-red hair. She chuckled. "You’re a queen, Mara, ruthless and beyond reach." A smile played on my lips. I was. Martin was pathetically near his end. I’m a force to be reckoned with, my dark-red hair a regal banner. I brought joy to them—Ethan, Claire, Ryan, Lila, Zoe—but shattering their spirits felt even sweeter. Claire serves me, Ethan is shattered, Ryan is a disaster, Lila is unemployed, Zoe is devastated. My life is nothing short of magnificent.

Several months had passed when I found myself at the riverbank, the streetlamp illuminating my deep red hair, while my leather coat was tightly fastened. Claire stood just behind me, clutching my bag, her choker catching the light. Below us, a woman sat on the ledge, her blonde hair dancing in the wind, tears streaming down her face. "What’s the reason behind this?" I shouted, my voice sharp and cutting.

She turned, desperate. “Who are you?” I stepped closer, my smile evil, my emerald eyes burning. “Tell me.” Her story spilled—loss, betrayal. I offered my hand. “I can fix you. Let me remake you, and your life will be a hundred times better.” As she reached out, I felt the pull. I’m Mara, the shadow, the queen, my empire growing with every soul I break.

[ravensolo77]

The Corruption of Charlie Andrews

Prologue: The Ember Ignites

Harrow’s End was a town smothered by its own malevolence, its cobblestone lanes fractured by ages of silent grievances, its drooping rooftops weighed down by a sky eternally shrouded in dark clouds. Victoria Worthington, who passed away at 98, was a figure steeped in darkness. Her towering gothic mansion perched on the hillside like a ravenous beast, its turrets clawing at the sky, its windows glimmering like cold, unfeeling eyes. In her youth, her raven-black hair framed a face of harsh beauty, her jet-black eyes sharp enough to peel away souls, and her wealth substantial enough to restore the town's fading aspirations a thousand times over. Yet she hoarded it all, providing no compassion, no warmth—only poison that dripped from her lips like molten metal. The townspeople branded her a tyrant, a harpy, a ghost who outlasted her kin through tragedies believed to be her machinations. Her will served as her final curse: her fortune would "disappear" unless someone "assumed control of her life." Infuriated, the town desecrated her memory, refusing her a decent burial. "Burn the witch," they spat, feeding her withered body to the insatiable flames of the crematorium, its chimney belching black smoke into the dusk, a pyre for a wicked soul.

In the midst of the field, Charlie Andrews, an 18-year-old high school senior, meticulously arranged cookies for a charity bake sale. Her golden blonde hair shimmered beautifully under the harsh fluorescent lights of the community center. Warmth radiated from her bright blue eyes, while her petite figure—small, pert breasts and gentle curves—was adorned in a lovely floral sundress. The dress featured pale pink petals and soft green vines intricately embroidered on a creamy cotton bodice, with the skirt flaring modestly to her knees, complemented by simple white ballet flats. Her face was mostly bare, aside from a slick of sheer pink lip gloss, and her cheeks bore a natural rosy hue, embodying an innocence that shone brightly. Charlie was the heart of the town, dedicating her time to volunteering at the local nursing home and tutoring young children, her laughter a comforting melody that lifted spirits. Her boyfriend, Robert, mirrored her essence: tall and lanky, with hazel eyes and aspirations of becoming a teacher. Their love was a pure commitment, promising to wait until after college for marriage before exploring intimacy.

As the smoke from the crematory curled upward, a mysterious, shimmering wisp of shadow sneaked through the atmosphere, unnoticed, before penetrating Charlie's chest. She gasped, her hand flying to her heart, a molten sensation running through her veins while her vision blurred with encroaching darkness. "Charlie, are you alright?" Robert inquired, his tone filled with concern as he gently steadied her elbow. She blinked, the world around her spinning, her breath uneven. "I’m... just feeling a bit dizzy," she murmured, forcing a smile that flickered like a candle in the wind.

Week 1: The First Whisper

Charlie’s visions started that week, gentle yet eerie, like whispers of shadows in her thoughts. A woman with raven hair and a lips stained crimson lingered in a hazy atmosphere, her voice a soft whisper: "You're destined for more, my dear. Don't let your light slip away." Charlie stirred awake, feeling warmth enveloping her, her heart pounding, but she brushed it off as just the pressures of senior year. In the reflection, her golden hair appeared somewhat dimmed, with faint brown strands emerging like fragile roots. Her complexion remained flawless—her soft pink gloss shimmering lightly, her cheeks radiating a natural flush, her blue eyes sparkling yet now reflecting a subtle, inquisitive gleam. "It’s nothing," she reassured Robert at school, her tone sweet, her smile genuine, dressed in a pastel blue cardigan adorned with tiny pearl buttons over a crisp white blouse, buttoned at the collar, matched with a knee-length pleated gray skirt and delicate white Mary Janes. "I just need to catch up on my sleep, I suppose." He responded with a nod, his hazel eyes filled with concern. "You would tell me if anything was off, right?" She grasped his hand, her touch reassuring. "Absolutely, Bobby." The nickname slipped from her lips, soft yet unfamiliar, and he tilted his head in confusion. "Bobby?" She burst into a giggle, feeling a rush of warmth. "It’s adorable, don’t you think?"

Her body felt subtly transformed. The bras that once fit comfortably were now snug, her modest breasts slightly fuller, pressing against her cotton blouses. Alone in her room, she stood in front of the mirror, her fingers pausing before they traced the new curves under her cotton bra, a gentle warmth blooming in her chest. She withdrew her hand, flustered, her cheeks flushing pink. "This is ridiculous," she whispered to herself, but the warmth persisted, awakening something new within her. That evening, after a tutoring session, she invited Robert into her room, her kisses tender yet prolonged, her lips meeting his with a quiet urgency, leaving a subtle shimmer of gloss on his mouth. "Charlie, we agreed to wait," he said gently, his hands hovering cautiously. She smiled, her bright blue eyes still untouched by mischief. "I know, Bobby. I just… enjoy being close to you." She paused, her touch innocent yet bold, her fingers lingering on his chest through the fabric of his flannel shirt. "You’re not upset, are you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. He shook his head, smiling. "Never." Later, in the mirror, she applied a hint of clear mascara, hardly noticeable, her lashes slightly emphasized, her face still emanating innocence, but with a subtle, curious spark in her eyes.

Week 2: The First Stirring

The visions became sharper, the woman's voice more demanding: "Why settle for service when you could radiate?" Charlie jolted awake, her skin buzzing, her breath short. Her hair had darkened, the brown spreading slowly like ink, dulling her former blonde to a muted gold. She examined herself in the mirror, dismissing it with a frown; her face still youthful—her pink lip gloss transitioned to a slightly richer rose hue, meticulously applied, her cheeks blushing naturally yet lightly dusted with a sheer layer of translucent powder that smoothed her complexion. Her blue eyes seemed deeper, a hint of shadow swirling within, though her demeanor remained warm.

"Maybe a different shampoo is in order," she remarked to Robert at school, her voice soft, her smile somewhat strained yet kind, dressed in a soft lavender gingham dress with white checks, its high neckline embellished with a delicate satin bow, the skirt flaring just above her knees, completed with white sneakers and a knitted cream cardigan featuring scalloped edges. "You look... different," he noted, his brow crinkled. "But still beautiful, of course." She felt her cheeks warm, playfully swatting his arm. "Oh, come on, Bobby." The nickname rolled off her tongue effortlessly now, playful yet hinting at a complexity she was unaware of.

Her body was shifting more noticeably. Her breasts felt heavier, her bras digging into her shoulders, her hips curving slightly in her modest dresses. Alone in her room, she locked the door, her curiosity overwhelming her innocence. She slipped a hand beneath her nightgown, a simple white cotton shift with lace trim at the hem, her fingers brushing her vagina, soft and warm. The sensation was startling, a spark of pleasure that made her gasp, her cheeks flushing. “Oh my,” she whispered, her fingers circling hesitantly, the warmth building until her breath hitched, a soft moan escaping. She stopped, embarrassed, her heart pounding. “I shouldn’t,” she murmured, but the pleasure lingered, a secret she kept from Robert. That weekend, she kissed him in her car after a movie, her lips pressing harder, her rose-glossed mouth leaving a faint stain, her hands roaming his chest through his cotton tee. “Charlie, we shouldn’t,” he said, but her fingers grazed his penis through his jeans, making him gasp. “Just a little, Bobby,” she murmured, her voice sweet but firmer. She pulled back, blushing. “Sorry, I got carried away.” He smiled, uneasy but trusting. “It’s okay.” In the mirror, she added a thin line of soft brown eyeliner, her lashes coated with a light layer of black mascara, her face still delicate but with a hint of sophistication, her wardrobe still pure—flowy blouses, pastel sweaters, ankle-length skirts in soft cottons and linens.

Week 3: The First Crack

The dreams were now strikingly vivid, the woman's voice an enticing command: "Claim what's yours, girl." Charlie's hair was darkening quickly, the brunette tones swallowing the blonde like ink spreading into fine fabric, leaving only traces of golden highlights. She had gotten her hair highlighted, but it only accentuated her features, transforming her from the girl who had once baked cookies for orphans into a stranger with an intense, wandering gaze. Her makeup had shifted—her rose lip gloss was replaced by a rich red lipstick, its creamy finish glistening like a fresh wound, while her eyes were framed by a slightly bolder line of black kohl, softly smudged for a sultry allure, and her cheeks dusted with a peachy blush that defined her cheekbones, offering a subtle radiance. Her wardrobe began to transform as well, swapping flowy floral dresses for tailored white blouses with a single button undone, subtly revealing her blooming cleavage, tucked into high-waisted navy pencil skirts that hugged her figure, ending just above the knee, complemented by low-heeled pumps in soft beige leather, topped off with a silk scarf in pale coral knotted elegantly at her neck. At the nursing home, she frowned as an elderly lady spilled her tea, her patience wearing thin. "Do be more careful," she remarked, her tone sharp yet not unkind, as the woman’s eyes glistened with embarrassment. Robert approached her at school, his voice gentle. "Charlie, you've changed. Are you alright?" She let out a sigh, her red lips forming a tight line, adjusting her scarf. "I’m just exhausted, Bobby. Exhausted from always being the good girl." He reacted to the nickname, which had turned into a subtle jab. "I miss that girl," he said softly. She managed a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Perhaps I’m just growing up, Bobby."

Her body was changing faster—breasts fuller, straining her blouses, hips curving in a way that drew stares she began to notice. Alone, she explored her body with growing curiosity, her fingers slipping beneath her satin panties, stroking her vagina with more confidence. The pleasure was sharper, her moans soft but urgent as she circled her clit, her body trembling as she came, her darkening hair splayed across her pillow, her nightgown rucked up to her thighs. “Goodness,” she whispered, her cheeks flushed, her innocence still clinging but fraying. That night, she pulled Robert into her room, her kisses deeper, her hands bolder through her fitted cashmere sweater, its soft blush pink clinging to her curves. “Charlie, we shouldn’t,” he said, but her fingers grazed his penis through his jeans, making him gasp. “Just a little, Bobby,” she murmured, her voice sweet but edged with need. She stopped short, her heart racing, but her eyes glinted with something new. In the mirror, she applied a bolder layer of black eyeliner, winged slightly at the corners, her lashes heavy with mascara, her red lipstick reapplied with precision, her face sharper, less like Charlie’s, her wardrobe edging toward allure—tight jeans, silk camisoles in ivory, leather ankle boots in muted taupe.

Week 4: The Hunger Awakens

The woman's voice had shifted into a serpent's hiss: "Destroy them. Control them." Charlie's hair was almost an inky black, with subtle highlights that barely concealed the remnants of blonde, reminiscent of stars engulfed by a dark ocean. Her makeup was a statement—thick black eyeliner sharply winged, slicing across her eyelids like raven feathers, her eyes smoldering beneath a luminous layer of bronzed eyeshadow that danced in the light, lips drenched in shiny scarlet lipstick, vivid as fresh blood, and cheeks sculpted with warm bronzer that shaped her face into striking angles, a glimmer of highlighter sparkling on her cheekbones like a wicked promise. Her outfit had undergone a radical transformation—no longer modest skirts, but a skin-tight black leather dress, its daring V-neckline accentuating her full breasts, the hem riding high to reveal her voluptuous figure, complemented by patent red stiletto heels that clicked like a predator's claws, a gold chain belt at her waist glittering with an air of threat. She ceased to be passive, her patience evaporated. "I'm finished playing their bloody saint. From now on, call me Charli," she told Robert in a diner, her voice cutting, lips of scarlet curling seductively, the curse word spilling out effortlessly. "Don't you ever tire of being so... pitiful, Bobby?" The nickname emerged like a dagger, and he recoiled, his cheeks aflame. "I just want to understand," he mumbled, his voice almost a whisper. She chuckled, low and malicious, adjusting her gold bangle, its diamonds sparkling eerily. "Understanding isn't your goal, Bobby. What you need is shut the fuck up and obey me."

Her body was a weapon now, and she reveled in it. Alone, she locked her door, her fingers plunging into her pussy—the word now her own. “Fuck,” she gasped, fucking herself with her fingers, her moans loud, her body arching as she came, her black hair fanned out on silk sheets, her leather dress tossed aside, her red stilettos kicked off in a heap. The pleasure was a drug, feeding the darkness. At school, she fixated on Jackson, a fellow senior, a tower of muscle with dark skin that gleamed under the gym’s lights, his broad shoulders and confident grin radiating raw power. She’d always admired him, but now a heat coiled in her pussy, raw and urgent. “I want him,” she told a friend, her voice hungry. “Jackson? Good luck,” the friend teased, but Charli’s lips curled. “I don’t need luck.”

That weekend, she invited Jackson over, telling Robert to come too. “Bobby, sit,” she ordered, her voice cold, her scarlet lips gleaming, her Chanel clutch tossed on the bed, its quilted leather glinting. Robert obeyed, his heart hammering. She tossed him a cock cage, her eyes narrowing. “Put it on, Bobby. Be a good boy.” His hands shook as he complied, the metal locking around his cock, his face burning. Jackson grinned as Charli kissed him, her hands tearing at his clothes, revealing his massive black cock, thick and pulsing. “Fuck, you’re huge,” she gasped, her eyes wild, her scarlet lipstick smearing slightly. She fucked him on the bed, her pussy gripping him as she rode him hard, her moans deliberate, her breasts bouncing in her leather dress, her black hair swinging like a curtain of night. “Look at me, Bobby,” she taunted, her bronze eyeshadow shimmering, her eyeliner smudged with sweat. “This is what I fucking want.” Robert watched, caged and broken, tears streaming as her laughter cut deeper than a blade.

Charli's hair had transformed into a jet-black cascade, reminiscent of the glistening tresses of Victoria depicted in ancient portraits tucked away in the mansion's attic. Her makeup elevated her presence to one of command—smoky eyeshadow gently fanned out into elegant wings over her eyelids, seamlessly blending into a luxurious plum hue at the edges, her gaze glowing like smoldering coals beneath. Boldly sculpted brows, defined with dark pencil, framed lips painted a striking crimson, echoing the color of fresh blood. Her cheekbones were artfully highlighted with bronzer, imbuing her with a spectral grace while a luminous highlighter shimmered on her high points like a teasing star. Her outfit exuded opulence, symbolizing her emerging power: a black Chanel tweed dress embellished with gold chains that clung to her curvaceous form, the hem grazing her thighs to emphasize her figure. She paired this with luxurious deep burgundy thigh-high suede boots from Gucci, their golden heels striking the floor with the force of war drums, and a Louis Vuitton handbag casually slung over her shoulder, showcasing its extravagant monogrammed leather. She tugged Robert , now looking more feminine, and his cock still caged and getting smaller, into upscale stores, her commands snapping like a whip. "Acquire this for me, Bobby," she demanded at the Chanel boutique, gesturing towards a $7,000 quilted leather jacket that glimmered enticingly under the lights, adorned with golden CC buttons. "You want to keep me content, don’t you?" He agreed, witnessing his finances dwindling as her smile morphed into something sinister, all while she effortlessly sported a $12,000 Louis Vuitton trunk bag over her arm, its canvas sparkling with golden studs. In a Gucci store, she insisted he buy a $4,500 silk scarf featuring fierce panther designs, wrapping it around her neck with a smirk, its fringes fluttering like a predator's mane. "That's a good boy, Bobby," she cooed, mockery dripping from her voice as her scarlet lips glowed. One of the sales associates, named Lena, approached to assist her. She caught Charli's eye.

A day later, she and Bobby returned to the store, her demeanor colder and sharper, snapping at Lena. 'Hurry up, you idiot,' she spat venomously, her scarlet lips twisting with disdain, her plum eyeshadow gleaming under the lights. Lena, under the weight of their aggression, hastened her pace. One night, Robert begged, 'Charli, I need you to come back.' She seized his chin, her black nails slicing into his skin. 'Charli's fucking gone, Bobby. I'm Charlotte now, and you're nothing to me.' She tossed him a pair of pink lace panties, delicate and teasing, her lips forming a sly smile. 'Put these on, Bobbi. Let's see how beautiful you really are.' She relished using the feminine form of his name, as now he looked more feminine than male. Her evenings were filled with indulgence. She pleasured herself with a stylish black dildo purchased with Robert's money, her body slick with desire, her moans reverberating through the room as she envisioned dominating Jackson and the whole town. Her Gucci boots lay discarded by the bed, her Chanel earrings sparkling on the nightstand. She brought Lena home, the saleswoman from the boutique . 'Bobbi, just watch,' Charlotte commanded, tightening his cock cage with a jingle of her Louis Vuitton bracelet. She made love to Lena, their bodies intertwined.

Week 6: The Shadow Takes Hold

Charlotte's cruelty was precision incarnate. Her makeup darkened—lips painted in deep black lipstick, matte and light-absorbing like an endless void, eyes shrouded in charcoal blended into a theatrical halo, layered with metallic silver eyeshadow that sparkled like polished steel, brows sharp as blades, cheeks sculpted to an almost skeletal sharpness, a brilliant highlighter tracing her cheekbones like a knife's edge, her visage a pale mask of authority that made passersby recoil. Her attire was a royal decree: a Louis Vuitton leather trench, its belt tightened to emphasize her voluptuous hips, the black leather shimmering like liquid shadow, draped over a Gucci silk bodysuit in obsidian, its plunging neckline clinging to her voluptuous curves, paired with Chanel stiletto boots adorned with pearls, their heels clicking ominously like a falling guillotine. The town people, moving aside whenever she walked down the street.Seeing her now was wicked and cruel.

She coerced Robert into purchasing a $15,000 diamond-studded Rolex at an upscale boutique, grinning as he swiped his card, his face ashen, the watch’s face shining like her merciless gaze. "You’re doing so well, Bobbi," she taunted, observing her former boyfriend, whose hair was now a lighter blonde with curls, decidedly more feminine. She slipped the Rolex onto her wrist, its diamonds sparkling. At a Chanel store, she demanded a $20,000 diamond choker, its gems glimmering with her wickedness, fastening it around her neck with a smirk. One day, she caught him gazing, his eyes pleading. "What do you want, Bobbi?" she inquired, applying her black lipstick with meticulous grace, her eyes icy in the reflection, her Chanel perfume enveloping the air like an intoxicating spell. "The old me? That frail little girl in those sad dresses?" He nodded, tears streaming down his face. "I love her." She cackled, a thunderstorm unleashed, Louis Vuitton earrings swaying, their golden chains cascading. "She was nothing. I am fucking everything." She entangled herself with two men at a lavish party, their size overwhelming, her body stretched as she let out teasing moans while Robert watched, trapped, her Gucci scarf trailing on the ground, its panther motifs seething in the candlelight. "This is what I fucking deserve, sissy boy" she proclaimed, her black lipstick smudged, hair perfectly styled.

Week 7: The Queen Ascends

Mr. Bennett, the town’s lawyer, handed Charlotte the estate papers, trembling, the air thick with the scent of old ink and dread. “It’s yours, Miss Andrews.” She signed Charlotte Andrews, her black lips curling, her Louis Vuitton pen glinting, its gold nib scratching like a spell. “I’m her.” She claimed the mansion, its dark halls embracing her like a lover, its chandeliers dripping with crystal that caught her reflection—a queen in a Chanel leather corset, its laces tight against her voluptuous curves, its black leather studded with gold, paired with Gucci leather pants that hugged her hips like a second skin, a Louis Vuitton fur stole in silver fox draped over her shoulders, its softness a mocking contrast to her cruelty.

Her parties were orgies of decadence, her wardrobe gleaming—Chanel gowns with crystal embroidery, Gucci furs in midnight black, Louis Vuitton boots with gold-plated heels. She fucked men like Jackson, women too, her pussy always hungry, her black lipstick smearing as she screamed her pleasure, Robert caged and watching, his savings gone to her $25,000 Chanel diamond clutch, its quilted leather encrusted with gems. Alone, she fucked herself with her dildo, her moans a hymn to her power, her Louis Vuitton bag tossed beside her, spilling gold jewelry onto the floor, her Chanel choker glinting at her throat.

Within the confines of her bedroom, standing before an ornate mirror adorned with twisting serpents, she beheld a reflection that felt foreign: raven-black hair flowing like an obsidian wing, ample breasts overflowing from her Chanel corset, lips as dark as a bottomless pit, and eyes ignited with the essence of Victoria, their silver eyeshadow shimmering like a tempest. "You made a wise choice," she murmured, her tone soft yet reverent, feeling Victoria’s spirit coursing through her veins. Charlie was but ashes, while Charlotte stood as queen.

Epilogue: The Breaking of Bobbi

Months later, Robert was transformed, no longer himself but Bobbi, the devoted servant of Charlotte. His tall, slender frame adorned in pastel dresses, occasionally slipping into French maid outfits.

The satin bodice hugged tightly, simulating soft feminine curves, its black fabric glistening under candlelight. The skirt was daringly short, flaring out with layers of white lace petticoats that barely concealed his thighs, revealing black fishnet stockings held up by a garter belt, their seams running up his shaved legs like dark veins. He balanced precariously in five-inch patent leather heels, their shiny surfaces reflecting the flickering flames, while his platinum blonde hair fell in soft curls, sometimes accented with a lace maid’s cap decorated with a satin bow. His lips were a striking cherry red, glossy and alluring, with thick black eyeliner winging his eyes dramatically, his lashes weighed down by mascara. His cheeks were dusted with a sparkling pink blush, mocking in its shine. The cock cage remained, a constant source of discomfort, biting into his flesh and haunting his every move. "You look perfect like this, Bobbi," Charlotte remarked, adjusting his apron, the fluttering white lace brushing against his skin as her black nails grazed him, her Chanel perfume wrapping around him possessively. In the mansion’s parlor, illuminated by grand candelabras casting flickering shadows on velvet drapes, Charlotte reclined in a striking Gucci emerald gown, its revealing neckline accentuating her curves, the silk flowing over her body like liquid night. Her black lipstick shimmered, and a diamond choker from Louis Vuitton sparkled around her neck, her eyes shadowed in charcoal and silver, creating a cruel cosmic effect. Jackson loomed beside her, his impressive physique a manifestation of raw desire. "Bobbi, kneel," commanded Charlotte, her voice smooth and commanding like silk, her lips curling in a satisfied smile. Bobbi obeyed, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, petticoats rustling, head bowed, maid’s cap quivering on her head. "Suck him," Charlotte instructed, her gaze fierce, her fingers teasing her own body through the gown, the silver eyeshadow glistening in the light. Bobbi took Jackson’s cock, gagging, tears mixing with mascara to create dark streaks down her face, her ruby-red lips smudged as she struggled. The maid’s cap slid askew, her glittery blush smeared by sweat. Charlotte laughed, her pleasure rising, the black lipstick pristine against her face, her cheekbones sharp and defined. "Good girl, Bobbi," she cooed, as Jackson climaxed, his release filling Bobbi’s mouth and spilling onto her satin apron, leaving thick white stains on the lace petticoats. "My perfect, broken maid," Charlotte whispered, delicately wiping away the remnants of cum from Bobbi’s lips with a black-nailed finger and licking it clean.

[ravensolo77]

The Typewriter of Dominion

Daisy Mae Martin stood in the charred ruins of her family’s barn in Des Moines, Iowa, her bare feet dusted with soot. At 18, she was a vision of farm-girl charm—curly blonde hair cascading in soft ringlets, cornflower-blue eyes bright with dreams, freckles scattered across her cheeks. Her faded flannel shirt and denim overalls hugged her slender frame, but her hands trembled, clutching the insurance papers. The fire had taken her parents, her home, her past. Yet it offered a lifeline: an insurance payout, enough to escape the cornfields and chase her dream of journalism.

Daisy had always wanted to tell stories that mattered, scribbling in notebooks and narrating imaginary broadcasts with her twangy voice. With the money, she enrolled at Iowa State University, studying journalism. College was grueling—waitressing at a dive diner, fending off truckers’ advances, studying by lamplight. Her flannel shirts, jeans, and messy blonde bun marked her as the outsider among polished classmates. But Daisy’s grit outshone their sneers. At 22, she graduated and landed a job at KDSM-TV, a small Des Moines station eager for fresh talent.

Daisy Mae glowed on camera. Her curly blonde hair framed her face like a halo, her Iowa twang softened into a warm lilt. At 22, she covered county fairs and city budgets with a sincerity that won Des Moines’ heart. “Daisy Mae’s goin’ places,” locals said, watching her on barroom TVs. But Des Moines was too small for her hunger. She dreamed of Chicago, a city of stories and power.

At 24, she joined WGN-TV, shedding her old self like a worn-out skin. She became Summer Dew, a name as sharp as the skyline. She straightened her curls, dyeing her hair platinum blonde, and traded flannel and overalls for tailored blazers, pencil skirts, and modest heels from Nordstrom. Her makeup sharpened—red lipstick, smoky eyes, foundation that erased her freckles. Her twang, now a calculated charm, captivated viewers. Her breakout City Hall corruption story made her a star, but fame stirred a darker craving—for control, for dominance.

On a wet and gloomy evening, Summer found herself in a Wicker Park antique store, captivated by a vintage Underwood typewriter, its keys weathered from years of untold stories. The store owner, an elderly woman with a mysterious grin, referred to it as 'cursed.' Summer, fascinated, handed over eighty dollars and carried it back to her apartment.

On that evening, with a glass of wine in her grasp, she crafted a narrative concerning the mayor’s crackdown on prostitution. The sound of her fingers dancing across the keys was hauntingly rhythmic.

The following morning, the headlines shocked everyone: Sarah, the 22-year-old daughter of the mayor, had disappeared from Yale. While at Yale, Sarah embodied innocence—long chestnut hair styled in a tidy braid, dressed in preppy cardigans and ballet flats, with her face free of makeup except for a hint of mascara. A dean's list student, she volunteered for literacy programs, her smile as pure as her father's campaign advertisements.

Now, she had reemerged in the Loop of Chicago as "Sugar," her chestnut locks transformed into a striking platinum with wild curls, trading in her cardigans for a daring leather miniskirt, fishnet stockings, and a fitted corset that showcased her midriff. Her lips were a vibrant cherry red, her eyes accentuated with thick kohl, and a cigarette hung loosely as she navigated the streets with a playful smirk. The mayor’s efforts had taken on a darkly ironic twist.

Summer was stunned—her story was a draft, unpublished. She tested the typewriter again, praising a nurse’s devotion. The nurse was arrested for drug trafficking the next day. Every story twisted reality—a pastor’s charity became a sex cult, a CEO’s ethics hid fraud. The typewriter was a force of chaos, and Summer was addicted.

Days later, Sugar’s fall deepened. Police raided the Loop, and Sarah, still dressed as Sugar—her leather skirt hiked up, fishnets torn, makeup smudged—was cuffed and led to a squad car. Flashbulbs popped as reporters swarmed, the mayor’s daughter now the face of his scandal. The mayor, once a moral crusader, faced calls to resign, his family’s name in tatters. Summer watched the coverage, her fingers itching to type more.

Summer’s career soared. Her “scoops” were uncanny, her stories breaking as scandals erupted. Chicago crowned her its queen, her platinum hair now dyed a sultry auburn, styled in sleek waves. Her makeup grew bolder—crimson lips, kohl-rimmed eyes, a flawless complexion that buried Daisy Mae. Her wardrobe evolved into high-end luxury—Gucci silk blouses, Chanel tailored dresses, Louboutin stilettos, Louis Vuitton handbags. She was dressed to the nines, every outfit a declaration of power.

She met Scott, a 28-year-old bartender with soft brown eyes and a timid charm. He was handsome but pliable, perfect for her games. She dominated him, her manicured nails digging into his arm as she whispered, “You’re mine, Scott.” In public, her Gucci-clad presence dwarfed him; in private, her control was ruthless.

She started adding estrogen to his beverages, noticing his jawline lose its definition and his body hair diminish. 'You look more beautiful now,' she'd remark, adorning him in silky panties as her laughter rang out, sharp and piercing, whenever he obliged. Scott, shattered and entranced, transformed into Stacy, his former self completely wiped away.

At the station, Summer caught sight of Sandy Lux, a 22-year-old intern sporting unassuming brown hair and a timid smile. Clad in simple blouses and flats, Sandy was a journalism student driven by raw ambition. Summer viewed her as a protégé—a blank slate ripe for manipulation. "Come along, Sandy," she coaxed, her Chanel dress shimmering. She showed Sandy how to twist narratives, how to distort the truth for effect. Eager to impress, Sandy started refining her reports, her naivety gradually fading.

Summer had undergone a complete metamorphosis. She transformed her hair to a sleek jet black, chopping it into a sharp bob that demanded attention. Her makeup served as her armor—luscious crimson lips, eyes accentuated with kohl, and a flawless complexion that obscured any remnants of her rural past. The mansion was a bastion of opulence, its walls adorned with reflective surfaces showcasing her collection of Gucci gowns, Chanel ensembles, Louboutin footwear, and Louis Vuitton handbags. On an obsidian desk sat the typewriter, its keys whispering of dark ambitions.

On an unforgettable evening, Summer hosted an extravagant gathering at her luxurious Lakeview estate, where the polished marble corridors glimmered softly under the glow of chandeliers. Among the elite guests was Marcus, an impressively tall and charismatic man who instantly caught her attention. Summer had a flair for thrilling experiences, particularly with men like Marcus, whose physical appeal resonated with her own desires. She invited him into a secluded chamber, where the atmosphere was charged—Stacy, dressed in intricate lace lingerie, trembled with expectation as Marcus approached. Summer watched intently, her Louboutin heels clicking in an alluring rhythm, as Marcus took control, asserting dominance over Stacy in a way that left her utterly breathless. A sly smile curled at the corners of Summer's lips, her authority unmistakable as she orchestrated their encounter, her pleasure an undeniable force.

Her tales ripped through Chicago like a tempest. A judge she referred to as 'fair' was ensnared in a bribery operation. A teacher once lauded for her kindness was revealed to be cruel. The heart of the city began to disintegrate, and Summer flourished. She invested her vigor into shaping Sandy. 'Deceive, Sandy,' she'd instruct, handing over altered scripts. 'The strength lies in the deception.' Sandy's reports became ferocious, her gaze more unyielding.

On a muggy evening, after an extended broadcast, Summer welcomed Sandy to her opulent mansion. In the bedroom, the silk sheets shimmered beneath the glow of a chandelier. Dressed in a translucent Gucci robe, with her black bob catching the light, Summer poured a glass of wine and settled in close. "You’re so innocent, Sandy," she whispered, her fingers gently caressing Sandy’s cheek and lingering on her lips. Sandy, blushing, her simple blouse hugging her form, didn’t resist as Summer pressed in, capturing her in a deep kiss, their tongues dancing. "Power is sweeter than honesty," Summer breathed, leading Sandy toward the bed. She slipped Sandy’s blouse off, her Louboutin nails brushing against Sandy’s skin, sending tingling shivers down her spine. Summer’s touch was both gentle and assertive, her lips trailing down Sandy’s neck as she murmured, "Submit to me." The closeness felt like a trap, Summer's authority pulling Sandy from purity into desire. The following morning, Sandy awoke, her eyes ignited with a newfound, darker passion, her transformation into Simone Rogers set in motion.

Summer’s indulgence reached new heights. She pursued lovers who fit her desires, especially men endowed with 'big black cocks,' a claim she would flaunt to Sandy with a mischievous grin. Her evenings blended into a haze of exclusive clubs and clandestine meetings, leaving her partners mesmerized yet ultimately overlooked. Stacy, now entirely transformed in lace and stilettos, resided in a guest suite, catering to Summer's every whim, her loyalty unwavering.

By the age of 30, Summer had become a formidable force. Her sleek, jet-black bob shone with intensity, while her eyes glimmered with a cold, obsidian stare. She finished her last article: Summer Dew, the undisputed queen of Chicago's media landscape, with her protégé Simone Rogers poised to follow in her footsteps. The typewriter resonated with energy, channeling her determination. The following morning, she unveiled the hidden truths of the WGN-TV chief (written in her own hand) and took command of the station.

She appointed Simone—now reinvented with raven-dyed hair styled into a chic bob, bold makeup emphasizing her red lips and kohl-rimmed eyes, and a wardrobe reflecting Summer's own, featuring Gucci dresses, Chanel blazers, Louboutin heels, and Louis Vuitton handbags—as the fresh face of the news desk.

Summer retreated to her mansion, running the station from the shadows. She typed stories for Simone to deliver, each one twisting Chicago further. A senator praised for ethics fell to scandal. A charity leader lauded for good was exposed as a fraud. Simone’s broadcasts, once earnest, now dripped with malice, her transformation complete under Summer’s tutelage. The typewriter’s curse was their crown, its lies their legacy.

Summer's opulent estate served as a haven of excess—gatherings filled with the city's elite, where she unabashedly pursued her pleasures, her admirers bolstering her self-image. Stacy, an elegant figure draped in silk, remained loyally by her side, her devotion unwavering. Simone, now as merciless as Summer, collaborated with her to scheme against the city, their laughter resonating like a sinister melody.

There was neither downfall nor salvation. Summer Dew, formerly known as Daisy Mae Martin, stood as a goddess of decadence, her raven locks a diadem, her typewriter a symbol of power. Chicago was her realm, its inhabitants mere marionettes in her scheme. Simone Rogers, molded in Summer's likeness, bore the torch of deception, pledging that their reign of falsehoods would endure indefinitely.

[ravensolo77]

The Shutter of Lust

Seacrest Hollow was a devout coastal refuge, perched precariously on rugged cliffs where the Atlantic murmured sacred hymns. Its 1,200 inhabitants resided in 200 weathered buildings: quaint shingle cottages, a main avenue lined with 10 brick shops—a bakery, a bookstore, a candle shop—and a boardwalk featuring 12 stalls selling rosaries, Bibles, and driftwood crosses. At the heart of the town stood the pier, the sacred nucleus, home to a church with a gray steeple, a garden for hymns, and a lighthouse serving as a beacon for prayer vigils. The waves crashed relentlessly, the air was infused with salt and beeswax, and the cliffs, adorned with sea lavender, attracted couples for pure-hearted weddings and youths for retreats focused on chastity. Seacrest Hollow was a stronghold of faith, where its residents renounced sin in favor of scripture, their existence tethered by repression, yet beneath their pious facade lay a deep-seated yearning for liberation.

At 65 years old, Desmond Holt found himself a widower, his body ravaged by lung cancer, with hands that once held steady now trembling with a fervor for photography that overshadowed his failing health. With medical treatments proving ineffective, he faced months left to live, his aspirations of sketching rugged cliffs and teaching Sunday school slowly slipping away. During a church rummage sale in a nearby town—a windy lot filled with the sounds of gospel music—he stumbled upon a battered Nikon F3. Despite its scratched lens, it sparkled with an enigmatic charm. The seller, an elderly man with piercing eyes, offered it for $8, softly saying, 'It reveals the secrets of the soul.' Captivated by its vintage weight, Desmond made the purchase, placing it on his shelf where it remained untouched. Meanwhile, Seacrest Hollow, in need of a photographer for church functions, welcomed him with open arms, scheduling him for weddings and community directories. The Nikon, brimming with an intoxicating promise, lay in wait to unveil the sacred moments of the town.

The journey of change began at the Salazar wedding. Lucia Salazar, 28, was a marine biologist whose passion for the ocean’s secrets inspired her work at the lighthouse lab in Seacrest Hollow. Her hidden dreams of swimming freely like a mythical creature were expressed through her sketches. Dressed in a simple white gown, her olive skin, dark curls, and hazel eyes radiated beauty as she wed Mateo Torres, 30, a woodworker dedicated to crafting altar rails. His warm brown eyes, shy smile, and calloused hands spoke of his gentle faith. They posed on the cliffs at twilight, surrounded by swaying lavender and the sound of crashing waves. Desmond, leaning on his cane, steadied the Nikon—his first attempt—its weight providing stability against his trembling hands. Click. The sound of the shutter ignited a tingling sensation in his fingers.

Inside his darkroom—a rustic shed infused with the scent of pine—the photographs developed under the warm glow of amber light. Two striking images appeared. The first captured Lucia, 22, transformed into a captivating mermaid reclining gracefully on the rugged rocks of Siren's Cove, her olive-hued skin glistening, dark curls dripping, hazel eyes exuding seduction, while her shimmering teal tail and seashell top radiated an intoxicating allure, inviting sailors with her enchanting siren’s call. The second depicted Mateo, reimagined as Marina another ethereal mermaid positioned on the same rocky outcrop, her deep brown eyes ablaze with passion, Mateo's features softened into femininity, her pearlescent pink tail and coral top drawing the gaze, her siren song amplifying the cove's irresistible charm. Desmond coughed, his heart pounding. He examined the negatives—identical shots, divided into two tantalizing frames. No mistake here.

He found himself unable to part with the photographs. Their magnetism held him captive, murmuring tales of existence. He secured them within a leather-bound scrapbook, inscribing 'Lucia Vane, Siren' and 'Marina Vale, Siren' in uneven handwriting, concealed beneath his floorboards. The following day, Lucia and Mateo disappeared from Seacrest Hollow. Church records wiped them from history. Their X profiles vanished without a trace. The wedding faded from memory. Only Desmond remembered Lucia's findings and Mateo's endeavors. Soon, chatter erupted on tabloid sites: Lucia and Marina, were seen as mermaids in Siren's Cove, their enchanting songs attracting throngs, their beauty transforming the town. Both had been reborn, youthful and captivating, their previous identities forgotten by everyone except Desmond.

He grasped the Nikon, its lens glistening with allure. A devout man—praying each day, giving generously—he felt its call, a temptation to challenge mortality. He placed it on a tripod in his studio, which was a garage adorned with velvet curtains, amber lights, and a chaise longue—to adjust its focus for an upcoming church project. The camera buzzed, its lens repositioning. Desmond tweaked it, clearing his throat, when the shutter clicked unexpectedly. Snap.

trembling hands smoothed, his frail frame curved into elegance. His gray hair flowed into jet-black waves, his gaunt face bloomed into porcelain. In the mirror, Desmond was gone. Desmona, 22, stood, with crimson lips, a body radiating desire, and eyes blazing with ambition. In a leather corset and silk skirt, the Nikon around her neck, she was no echo of Desmond—she was Desmona, her mind a furnace of seduction. His memories—his cancer, his faith—were dust. The scrapbook was hers, its secrets igniting her hunger. She knew the camera’s power to unleash forbidden lusts, her role its eternal seductress. Each shot would preserve her youth, her beauty a timeless flame.

Desmona’s lips curled into a wicked smile. “Let’s set this town ablaze,” she purred, the Nikon warm against her skin.

Desmona roamed Seacrest Hollow, her presence igniting curiosity, her Nikon held like a regal scepter. At a church picnic, she captured Anna Wells, 32, a seamstress with enchanting blonde braids, sparkling blue eyes, and sun-kissed freckles, diligently stitching vestments, while her secret sketches of daring gowns stayed hidden. Click. The photograph unveiled Anya Rose, 22, clad in a delicate lace bodysuit, creatively crafting provocative lingerie in a trendy boardwalk boutique, her blue eyes alluring, freckles aglow, and blonde hair cascading freely, radiating an irresistible charm. Anna's past faded away—her vestments disappeared, her name fading into obscurity—but Anya Rose sprang to life in Seacrest Hollow, her boutique alluring the faithful, her X posts flaunting intricate lace thongs. Desmona added her photo to her scrapbook, titled “Anya Rose, Designer,” her own youthful spirit rekindled.

During a retreat, Clara Hayes, 25, with striking auburn hair and captivating green eyes, and Sophie Lane, 27, sporting brunette curls and deep brown eyes, led a Bible study session, their laughter hinting at hidden dreams. Click. The image captured Clara and Sophie, now 22, as they embraced their identities as lesbian cam models in transparent lingerie, broadcasting steamy shows from a luxurious cliffside penthouse, their fiery gazes intense, with radiant auburn and brunette tresses, showcasing palpable chemistry. Their previous identities were erased—retreat records deleted, X chats vanished—but Clara and Sophie reemerged in Seacrest Hollow, their X streams reaching billions. Desmona's scrapbook featured their photo, labeled 'Clara Hayes & Sophie Lane, Cam Girls,' accentuating her enchanting beauty.", "At a youth retreat, Clara Hayes, 25, with her auburn locks and vibrant green eyes, and Sophie Lane, 27, with her dark curls and warm brown eyes, facilitated a Bible study, their giggles hinting at unspoken desires. Click. The picture revealed both Clara and Sophie, now aged 22, as lesbian cam performers in see-through lingerie, broadcasting provocative shows from a cliffside penthouse, their smoldering gazes captivating, the red and brown of their hair glowing, their connection electric. Their former selves faded away—retreat journals erased, X chats deleted—but Clara and Sophie reemerged in Seacrest Hollow, their X streams amassing billions of views. Desmona's scrapbook included their snapshot, labeled 'Clara Hayes & Sophie Lane, Cam Girls,' enhancing her striking allure.

At a high school graduation, she shot Elizabeth Anderson, 18, a valedictorian with blonde ponytail, blue eyes, and freckled cheeks, her speech praising purity, her diary hiding erotic stories. Click. The photo showed Eliza Thorn, 18, a porn star in a satin robe, filming explicit scenes in a pier studio, her blue eyes sultry, freckles stark, blonde hair flowing, her presence magnetic. Elizabeth’s old life was erased—her transcript vanished, her TikTok gone—but Eliza Thorn appeared in Seacrest Hollow, her X clips viral, her films redefining desire. Desmona’s scrapbook gained her photo, labeled “Eliza Thorn, Star,” her allure deepening.

At a church directory shoot, she shot Mary Grace, 50, a church matron with gray bun, gray eyes, and wrinkled skin, leading women’s prayer, her secret romance novels stashed under her bed. Click. The photo showed Maris Grace, 22, a Playboy model, nude, posing in a cliffside mansion, her gray eyes seductive, gray hair now platinum waves, her youthful body radiant. Mary’s old life was erased—her prayer group forgot her, her hymnals gone—but Maris Grace surfaced in Seacrest Hollow, her X spreads iconic. Desmona’s scrapbook added her photo, labeled “Maris Grace, Model,” her charm blazing.

At a pier festival, she shot Finn Carver, 29, a dockworker with sandy hair and gray eyes, hauling nets, his journals full of forbidden fantasies. Click. The photo showed Fiona Lux, 22, a high-end escort in a silk gown, hosting elite clients in a seaside villa, her gray eyes smoldering, sandy hair gleaming, her allure irresistible. Finn’s old life was erased—his bunkhouse empty, his name forgotten—but Fiona Lux moved into Seacrest Hollow, her X teasing tycoons. Desmona’s scrapbook gained her photo, labeled “Fiona Lux, Escort,” her youth eternal.

Each transformation was raw, each soul reborn younger, their repressed lusts unleashed, their allure reshaping Seacrest Hollow. Lucia Vane and Marina Vale, mermaids of Siren’s Cove, lured sailors and tourists with their siren songs from jagged rocks, their olive and pearlescent skin shimmering, their teal and pink tails and sultry eyes hypnotic, their presence a mythic beacon. Anya Rose’s lingerie boutique, its crotchless panties and bras, corrupted the pious, her freckles and blue eyes alluring. Clara Hayes and Sophie Lane’s cam shows, streamed live, inspired orgies, their auburn and brunette hair glowing, their passion electric. Eliza Thorn’s porn films, shot on the pier, streamed millions, her freckles and blue eyes iconic, her scenes raw. Maris Grace’s nude Playboy shoots, posed on cliffs, redefined beauty, her platinum hair and gray eyes captivating. Fiona Lux’s elite galas, held in her villa, fueled scandals, her sandy hair and gray eyes magnetic.

Their old lives were erased, but they reappeared in Seacrest Hollow, younger and insatiable, their photos feeding Desmona’s ageless allure. Each click amplified her beauty—crimson lips plumper, jet-black hair glossier, eyes fiercer, her presence a siren’s call. She was the Nikon’s queen, her youth a mirror of her power.

The scrapbook swelled, a chronicle of vice. Desmona alone remembered their old names—Lucia Salazar, Mateo Torres, Anna Wells, Clara Hayes, Sophie Lane, Elizabeth Anderson, Mary Grace, Finn Carver—but their new selves ruled Seacrest Hollow’s sultry streets, their names—Lucia Vane, Marina Vale, Anya Rose, Clara Hayes, Sophie Lane, Eliza Thorn, Maris Grace, Fiona Lux—whispered in its lustful haze.

Desmona scoured X and vintage forums for the Nikon’s origins. A post on a photography site intrigued her: the camera, called “The Shutter of Lust,” appeared in 1955 at a Havana nightclub. A photographer shot a dancer; the photo showed her as a burlesque queen, younger and radiant. She vanished, her troupe forgetting her, but reappeared nearby, her allure infamous. The camera resurfaced in 1970s Rio, then 1990s Vegas, always erasing subjects, always rebirthing them younger, their lusts unleashed. A user claimed it was forged by a libertine’s pact, a lens to “free the flesh.” Desmona smirked, cradling the Nikon, its heat her lover. She was its eternal vixen, her ambition insatiable.

Her hunger raged. She opened Desmona’s Photo Studio in the lighthouse, its neon sign flashing “Unleash Your Vice.” Locals, drawn by rumors of her “life-changing” lens, paid in crypto, signed blood-oath NDAs, and begged for the Nikon’s touch. Click. A pastor became a stripper, his club on the pier. A librarian became an erotic novelist, her books sold in the bookshop. Each vanished from memory, resurfacing younger, their lives swelling Seacrest Hollow’s debauched heart, their photos fueling Desmona’s timeless beauty—lips fuller, curves sharper, eyes hypnotic.

Seacrest Hollow succumbed to debauchery. The boardwalk’s twelve stalls transformed into adult shops and fetish emporiums, their neon lights illuminating the night. The church began hosting burlesque evenings, while the hymn garden turned into a clandestine lover’s retreat. The lighthouse at the pier was rebranded as Desmona’s Lust Studio, casting its glow as a beacon of hedonism. The population surged, enticed by a wicked allure, with newcomers filling the vacant spaces. By 2027, Desmona’s creations—now the heartbeat of the town—had led to its renaming as Siren’s Cove, a title sharp as a whip, echoing the cliffs where the siren songs of Lucia and Marina first resonated. Only Desmona remembered Seacrest Hollow, her scrapbook a testament to 250 lost souls.

Siren’s Cove pulsed with indulgence, its avenues brimming with youthful passion. Lucia and Marina , mermaids perched upon rocky ledges, lured crowds with their enchanting melodies, their glimmering tails and alluring gazes beckoning lovers to the cove, their X posts legendary. Anya Rose’s lingerie shop, showcasing daring leather harnesses, ignited fantasies, her freckles radiant. Clara Hayes and Sophie Lane’s cam performances, broadcasted from their upscale penthouse, garnered billions of views, their auburn and brunette locks glistening. Eliza Thorn’s adult film enterprise, shot along the pier, ruled X, her striking blue eyes unforgettable. Maris Grace’s nude Playboy features, captured on breathtaking cliffs, captivated millions, her platinum hair shimmering. Fiona Lux’s extravagant villa gatherings, overflowing with luxury, shocked the elite, her gray eyes enchanting. The town expanded—sex clubs, lofts, and studios sprawling along the cliffs—nourished by the rebirth of the Nikon, its neons glowing, the atmosphere thick with desire.

Desmona swore she would gather 50 more souls, her scrapbook yearning for 300, the tally needed to elevate Siren’s Cove as the ultimate hub of decadence. She pressed the shutter again, the camera’s whisper echoing like a lover’s promise: "More." Click. The capture revealed her on a cliffside stage, Siren’s Cove ablaze with neon light below, her followers—Lucia Vane, Marina Vale, Anya Rose, Clara Hayes, Sophie Lane, Eliza Thorn, Maris Grace, Fiona Lux—revering her, vibrant and dazzling, adorned in daring outfits. Her scarlet lips shimmered, ebony hair cascaded down, eyes ignited with passion, her beauty everlasting. "The world," the camera breathed. Desmona chuckled, her heart ignited, her Nikon her unwavering weapon.

[ravensolo77]

Rise of the Goth

Victoria had been having issues at school, really she had been having issues since she was a kid, always feeling out of place. Not fitting in where others would easily be apart of a crowd. Sure she knew that was high school but now in college it almost felt like the same thing. She attended one of the states largest schools, it had a huge campus, over 25k students attending, so she had to feel like something was there for her. And she thought she had found it, she started in a few clubs, met some really amazing people, and even started to date this nice guy. They were happy for 4 months, the longest she had ever been with someone. And until a week ago that was the best thing for her. Then her former bully from school, Amber had started to seem to be circling around her more. She noticed Amber on her way to classes, hanging around dorms and she had no clue why. Until one afternoon she was walking out of class and saw Amber making out with a guy, it was more than making out, Amber was straddling the guy on a bench and kissing him, it was so close to being lewd. Then she noticed his shirt, it was a shirt she had bought her boyfriend, then Amber flipped her hair back and she saw him, her boyfriend happily cupping Amber's tits and looking up at her with the goofy grin. Victoria screamed, Josh looked over in a shock, he pushed Amber to the side, stumbling to get to her, he was trying to explain, trying to tell her it wasn't what she thought. Josh was followed by Amber who pulled out her phone to show a weeks worth of pictures of her and Josh. Victoria started to put things together. She screamed again and stormed off. There was a laughter that just lingered in Victoria's head, the laughter of Amber, the bitchy, spoil, self centered laughter and it burned into her. 2 days she ghosted calls from Josh, she never wanted to hear his voice again, never wanted to see his face, or feel his touch. She hated him, she hated him for giving into the blonde menace. And she wanted revenge on her. She felt anger, she felt hate, and until she could calm down it boiled inside her. Another 2 days and Josh finally got the hint, he stopped calling, he unfriended her on all socials. Victoria could only sit and watch as her world started to fall apart. She had what she thought was everything and now she had nothing. Then the dreams started. The first night of dreams it was just blackness. The second night, was blackness but she felt like something was moving around her. She woke up in a cold sweat. Night three, she heard laughter around her, walking around her, stalking her. She screamed into the darkness and whatever it was laughed back more. Night four, she felt nothing, she was alone in the dark. Night five, she felt the presence again. Night six, she could feel something touch her but she turned to look and it was gone. Night seven, was when she saw something emerge from the dark.

"What are you?" The voice was weird, like someone talking in water, "I am desire, I am darkness, I am here to help, if you wish it." "Why would you help me?" "Why wouldn't I? You are hurt, you are in pain, and I can help ease your pain and suffering." "How would you do that?" "I'd give you the means to help yourself, to transfer that pain to someone else." "I wouldn't wanna do that. No one deserves to be hurt. Can't you just take the pain away?" "Like energy or matter, it can not be destroyed it can be changed or exchanged." Victoria was listening but not really understanding, she tried to follow along but said "I guess." "Who hurt you?" "My boyfriend, that slut Amber." "And what if I could help you hurt your boyfriend, and make Amber never be able to hurt you again?" She bit her lip, thinking about this, she could feel her heart racing. "Has this been you the whole time in my dreams?" "Yes and no, my family, they have tried to visit, but only the one of use who could help would be the one you could see," the being said, lying to her of course. But in Victoria's state of sadness and anger she would believe almost anything. "Fine if I let you help me, what will happen?" "You just have to wake up, and you will see some changes in your life and then some more changes over the next day and then we can talk about your ex and your friend." "Amber isn't my friend." "Of course, my mistake, now are we agreed?" "Yes fine." The being reached out to shake her hand, Victoria took it, felt a burning sensation in her palm and gasped as she woke up. The sun was out and she looked around, "what the fuck" she said then heard her voice, it was different, more sultry and alluring. She looked down and noticed her body was different.

Her breasts had grown, and there were tattoos on her arms, her hips were a little wider and she had an ass, not a flat one but actual curves. It was amazing, she was excited. What she should have been was scared at the fact something was able to change her like this. But this wasn't what was on her mind. What was on her mind was revenge. She started think of a plan, she could go after her ex, but Josh would be too easy to ruin, the minute she called, he would come running to talk to her, to apologize. She knew that wouldn't be too much fun. Instead she set her sights on Amber, that would be more of a hunt, something worthwhile and someone who would be torn down to the very ground she thought she owned just for being alive. She had a feeling by tonight she would be ready. Across Campus

Amber was in the sorority house getting ready for another beautiful day. She had blonde hair, big tits and the perfect look for luring men into her grasp. She did it all through high school and even more in college. She had 3 different boyfriends, all who would give her anything she wanted just because she hot and they could be around one of the hottest girls on campus. Of course they didn't know she was dating other guys, some of the sorority sisters knew of course but to them they thought it was funny how easily Amber could control men. She rolled over in her bed, and texted each of the guys, telling them she was awake, telling them she wanted to go shopping today to buy some surprise naughty stuff for their upcoming dates. Each one sent her at least 100 bucks, because that's what she asked for. Josh sent her 150 because he was the newest guy she was seeing and he was trying to make her want him, he was worried after his last girlfriend and him broke up that Amber was going to dump him too, so he sent more to make sure she was staying with him. Amber laughed at all these boys sending money. She got out of bed and started to get ready to go shopping, she wasn't spending her money of course, which made it so much more fun. Across Campus

Hours later and Victoria was feeling herself changing more. It was thrilling, she was becoming hotter, and felt like she was becoming more powerful as well. She moved in front of the mirror and smirked at her new look.

She found her clothes changed, new tattoos formed and everything just gave her a new look on life. Victoria that girl who was walked all over was gone. Vicki was here to stay. She felt this weird sense of knowledge in her mind, that Amber was leaving to go to the mall, she also seemed to know Josh was at his dorm hard at work. She licked her lips, a trip to the mall was in order. Her prey was going to be there. At the mall, Vicki could sense Amber now, she was close. It only took her a few minutes to start to shadow her. Walking through the halls, no one seemed to notice the hot gothic chick stalking this bubbly sorority slut. All eyes were on Amber of course. Rage filled Vicki and she knew the time to strike was now. Amber was walking into a dressing room, Vicki moved in behind her, pushing her against the wall. "What the fuck, you bitch get off me." Vicki's eyes blackened for a second, "No, you're mine," and leaned in and kissed Amber. Vicki felt Amber fight back against the kiss for about a second or two before she started to kiss back. Amber moaned as Vicki moved back and smiled. "Who are you?" Amber asked, feeling light headed, looking at the woman who forced her into a kiss. Vicki smiled, something wicked in her heart and she stared "I am your new mistress, you can fight it, but in a few days you will be all mine." "Fuck you," she said but there was no real feeling behind it, Amber couldn't seem to put the normal strong emotion behind the yell. She pushed past the gothic girl and ran out to her car to head back to the sorority. Amber couldn't stop thinking of the girl, she didn't even know the chick's name, she wanted to call the cops, wanted to claim assault but would anyone believe it? She was so upset she cancelled her date with Derek, and texted the other 2 guys that she wasn't feeling that well and that she would be turning in early and not to text her until she texted them back. She talked to the sisters in the group chat, saying she was feeling ill and wouldn't be able to do her mandatory chores tonight and maybe tomorrow but she would take over for another girl if they were willing to swap for a few days. A couple girls agreed and Amber rolled over into a deep sleep for the night. The next day Amber woke up in a sweat, the goth girl kissing her, just played over and over in her mind. She went over to find some meds to help her relax when she saw herself in the mirror.

Amber was shocked. Tattoos, dark hair, what the fuck was happening to her. This wasn't who she was. She brought her fingers up to her lips, touching them as she kept thinking about the kiss, and noticed her nails were black too. She wanted to scream, wanted to yell but something in her mind kept saying she was Mistress's Toy. Amber was even more scared, thoughts of being with another girl were never something she wanted but now thinking of the goth girl was getting her wet. She wanted to be touched, held, kissed by her Mistress.....no she couldn't think like that, she wasn't like that. That wasn't her. She had to stay hidden in her room, away from people, this will go away, or she would have to figure out what was happening to her. She pulled out her laptop and started to look up things. Trying to figure this out. Later that Evening

The music at the club was thumping. The bass was beating through the bodies of all the people on the dance floor. Vicki was dancing but off to the side, she was watching the crowd. She was waiting to see the man she texted earlier. She had texted Josh, telling him she was going to be at the club, which was a shock to him, but she said this was his one chance to talk to her.

Of course she was never going to talk to him, at least not as Victoria, that version of her was gone. What she was going to do was flirt with him, tease him. He wouldn't have any clue who she was. She was going to make him obsessed with her but was never going to let him have her. It wasn't that difficult either, he was like a moth to the flame as soon as she winked at him from the side of the room. There were already a lot guys eyeing her up and down, but when he was winked at, he thought she was into him. She laughed as she kept flirting with other guys knowing how easy it was to break him. It wasn't even going to take her a night. Another wink and Josh had sent her a drink. Another wink and he meekly walked over to talk to her. She walked away with another guy, but kept eye contact like she was showing that she wasn't into the well dressed man. Josh had no clue he was on her hook and that thrilled her even more. After teasing close to a dozen men that night, Vicki headed home, feeling aroused from all the sexual frustration she had caused all these men. She laid in bed, wondering how her real prize was coming. She would know by tomorrow. THE NEXT DAY

Amber woke up the next day, she looked around, and felt out of place in the sorority house. She stood up and got dressed, it was dark out and the room was pitch black. She finally turned on the light and saw her newself. She blinked and had it been a mere 2 hours prior her mind would have still been its former self, now she was merely a toy. She moved to the mirror and took a selfie, and sent it to a number that she seemed to know.

She sent a message. "Mistress, your toy is ready, how do I look?" Vicki got the message, staring at the new gothic beauty. She smiled, "Such a good toy, come to Mistress." Amber got up, walking out the room and out of the sorority house, she knew in her mind and body where to go. It took her about 20 mins to walk there but soon she arrived. Vicki smiled, "You look perfect my dear." "Thank you," she bowed and stepped part Vicki into the house, starting a new life as a toy to be used.

[ravensolo77]

Emily Was Smart

This started as a bluesky post, but I ended ups losing what I had written. Decided to expand it on here and it's sort of taken on a life of it own. This Part One of what I hope will only be two!

Emily was smart, and she knew she was smart. She consistently got the highest marks in her class, something she was proud of, but it wasn't exactly difficult to achieve, considering the school she went to and where she lived. Emily was from the rough part of town, the area respectable people avoid when they're alone. Emily lived on a council estate and was determined not to let that define her, not like the other chav girls on the estate. Not like Rebecca or 'Becca' as she now liked to be called. Rebecca had once been her only friend, someone who saw the world the way she did; that if you worked hard in school, went to University and got a good job you could improve your life. That was until Rebecca gave in to peer pressure and became Becca. Overnight she went from her best friend to being just like all the other chav bitches on the estate. She's started drinking, smoking and dressing like a slut. Last Emily heard Becca had been expelled after she was caught on her knees giving a boy a blowjob in the school bathrooms. No, Emily would never be like that. Emily was smart, she was going to University in September and would never look back. All she had to do was study over the weekend and ace her final German language exam.

***

Emily had no plans for the weekend, besides reading and studying. She was leaving the Library with her customary stack of new books to devour when she bashed into someone.  

Tumbling to the ground she heard the sound of a voice she recognised. "Fuckin' watch it, would ya" it was Becca. Emily was flustered as she pulled herself off the ground and saw Becca standing in front of her. She was clearly in the middle of getting her hair done. Emily could smell foul cigarette smoke mingled with cheap perfume coming off her clothes. Emily was taken aback by how much Rebecca had changed. Gone was the brunette hair of her former friend; in its place was a blonde dye job in curlers, a face thick with makeup, fake lashes and ugly lip filler squeezed into a blue tracksuit now calling herself Becca. "I'm so sorry Rebecca, I didn't see you," said Emily trying to defuse the situation. 

"Who the fuck you callin' Rebecca? It's Becca to you or Bex to my mates." A look of recognition appeared on Becca's face followed by a sharp mocking laugh. "Oh my god, is that Emily Brown? You're bigger lookin' disaster than I remember." looking at the stack of scattered books she added, "see you ain't grown up n are still n to all that stupid school stuff." 

"I didn't mean to bump into you. You don't need to insult me, Becca."  Said Emily with more venom than she knew she was capable of.

"The only insult here is how you look" 

"Well, I'm surprised you can see anything with those spider legs you call eyelashes stuck to your face."

"Yeah whatever I know a jealous bitch when I see one, You wish you looked half as fit as me!" Emily could feel her blood pressure rise at that last comment. Like she would ever be jealous of someone like Becca, some common slag from the estate. 

"As if I would be a jealous chav slut like you! I'm going somewhere with my life, somewhere better than this dive with people better than you!" spat Emily. She'd had enough of dealing with girls like Becca. Sure this was the first time she had spoken to Becca in over a year, but she had plenty of run-ins with other chav girls just like her on the estate; all the pent-up anger and resentment had come bubbling to the surface. Emily waited for her words to hit, to see the hurt and realisation on Becca's face, but it never came; instead, she just smiled.

"Ha, you really think you're so much better, well you ain't shit, you're just a stuck-up loser, who needs a good shag, and to have some fun!" Becca's smile became a devious smirk as an idea formed. "Why don't I help you for old time's sake?" 

Emily saw Becca raise her hand, she was sure she was about to slap her. The last thing Emily wanted to do was get in a fight, but she was too frozen in fear to move. The next thing she knew Becca's tacky fake French manicure acrylics were racking across her face in a sharp but fleeting bloom of pain.  

Emily held her hand to her face as she watched Becca ascend the escalator. Emily was sure she had broken the skin, but she didn't feel any blood. With a smug knowing look on her face, Becca looked back and said, "Send me a message, when you realise you're really just a chav slut like me and want to apologise!"

***

Emily was back home in her bedroom trying to read and as far as she was able to tell Becca hadn't left a visible mark when she scratched her; only a tingle where her nails had made contact. Emily was trying to concentrate on studying, but it just felt so pointless and boring. She couldn't get Becca's smug face and words out of her head. Maybe she wasn't better than Becca? What would her life be like if she stayed friends with her? Images formed in her head of herself wearing fake tan, large hoop earrings and her own long sexy eyelashes. Sexy? Where had that thought come from, no they were ugly and made you look cheap. But maybe if she did have them she wouldn't be a virgin loser anymore and she could get off with the lads. Emily could feel the tingle from her face move through her body and felt herself growing wet. Thoughts of how good it would be to finally fuck someone made her start to bring her hand to her pussy. Thoughts of her blowing boys in the school bathroom, like a chav slut.

That's when she noticed her hand on her book and she snapped back to reality, fear and horror took over as she watched sexy pink acrylics form on her fingers.

Emily brought her hands to her hair as her mind was suddenly bombarded with new wants and desires. A battle was raging in her head, she was Emily, she was smart. No, she was a chav slut who needed a shag. She was going to University. Opinions shifted and changed in her head. Why the fuck was she wasting her time at school. School was boring, what did she need school for? Emily could feel her lips start to puff out like she'd just gotten lip filler as a bronze glow spread across her skin. 

Warring thoughts of 'please no, what's happening', and 'I bet these will feel great wrapped around a cock' brought equal measures of pain and pleasure. Emily knew she had to fight it, but she didn't know why. Why fight? She was a chav slut, right? Getting wrecked and fucking lads was all that mattered? Not being some prissy virgin loser? Why had she been so bitchy to Becca? She really was just like her. Or she wanted to be right? But Emily hated the chav look? Then why was feeling so jealous of her hot former bestie? 

***

Emily didn't know how long she had been asleep, she must have blacked out; from the pain or pleasure, she didn't know. All that mattered was that everything was clear, she knew what mattered and who she really was. She was a slag, a slut and a chav. Emily brought her nails to her juicy and plump lips. She loved how sexy they looked, she knew they would look great wrapped around a big cock. Emily knew what she needed, and it wasn't books or an education, it was a party with fits lads and booze. The only problem was, whatever had changed her hadn't changed her wardrobe or bedroom. She had barely any makeup and her clothes were shit.

A smile formed on her newly inflated lips as she remembered Becca had said to message her. She laughed and thought 'that bitch knew this was going to happen.' Emily grabbed her phone and started typing.  

[Babes I'm like proper sorry. You were like so right! Thks for like whatever the fuck you did to me. I luv it!!! but I need your help! my stuff is total shit and they're ain't no way I'm wasting another weekend stuck in the house!]

***

20 Minutes later Emily was sitting in Becca's bedroom. It had changed since the last time she had been there, changed as she had or as they both had Emily thought with a smile. Gone were the trophies and stuffed animals, now it was all pink with stuffed wardrobes full of skimpy outfits and the desk had been replaced with a vanity.

Emily was trying to listen as Becca bubbled with excitement explaining what was happening to her, but she had this uneasy feeling at the back of her mind like her body needed something, something other than a lad inside her.  

"Basically it's like magic babe, same thing happened to me, that's happenin' to you. Except you have this sexy bitch to help you out right? Some random bitch scratched me with her nails and my whole life just started changin' But it only works on your body 'n mind. You might still have the old you pop back in at the start. That's how I got caught sucking off Dylan O in the girls. The old me popped back n started freaking out. Perv-master Smith heard" Emily was getting impatient and annoyed, she was craving something she just didn't know what, but Becca kept going on. "It's like you change overnight, I was even more of slag than I am now those first few weeks if that's possible. Takes you a bit 'til you learn how to control it"

Becca stopped at this point in her story and lit a cigarette, the moment Emily smelt the smoke she knew what she was craving. She needed a fag. She knew old her would be horrified. She always hated the smell and had mocked the smokers needing their 'nic fix' in between classes, but Chav Emily knew she was desperate for a smoke. It made a weird sort of sense if what Becca said was true about her scratch changing your body and mind. Everyone knew that chav girls smoked or at least vaped so it made sense to Emily that she would too.  

"Becca babes, give us one of those would you?"   

"What? One of these?" Becca said waving her cigarette in front of Emily's face. "Didn't you use to say it was disgusting and only idiots started smoking" Emily knew she did use to say and believe that, but that was the old her, new her knew instinctively she was gasping for fag. Her body needed it. 

"Please Becca, I'm like proper desperate, just a drag"

"I'm only messing with you, help yourself, but only for tonight, you'll need to get your own." Becca tossed the pack and lighter to Emily and instinct took over, her body and mind already knew what to do. Emily put her first-ever cigarette in her mouth and lit it inhaling deep as a sense of relief washed over her. 

Logically she knew this was her first time smoking, and she should have been coughing and feeling ill. Her body on the other hand felt like she had done this thousands of times before, but had just been deprived of nicotine for too long. 

"Fuck I needed this" said Emily as she slowly exhaled. “Thanks, babe.”

Becca took a picture while she was blowing out the smoke, "You look so fucking hot with a fag. We've gotta start posting on insta, let the fellas know there's a new girl on the estate." Emily loved the idea, she couldn't wait to get fucked up and hit the town. Thinking about the old her filled her with anger, just a pathetic loser nerd who didn't know how to have fun. She had lost time to make up for and wanted to destroy her old self-image. To make sure no one ever remembered what she used to be like. 

Emily spent the next hour getting ready at Becca's. Her hands moved automatically as she applied thick layers of makeup, drew on her eyebrows and added her new false lashes. Putting on a pair of Becca’s oversized hoop earrings made her shiver with pleasure. The only time she paused was for another fag or to swig from the bottle of vodka Becca had handed her. Becca couldn't help but admire how hot she looked, she stared at herself in disbelief that she was the same girl as before. Tanned and covered in makeup she finally felt like she belonged. 

Laying down on the bed Emily took a picture for her feed with the caption. Gurls lock up you men ;). Updating her profile she rolled her eyes at the old shit she used to post. 'Arsty' skyline pictures and photos of her cat called Lace, she couldn't believe she'd ever thought she been so cool for naming her after Ada Lovelace, she really had been a pretentious twat. 

By the time Emily was dressed she was already feeling a little drunk and it was only 5pm, but Becca had said they needed to get going. Becca and her other mates were meeting in the park before heading out for pre-drinks. Emily couldn't tell if she was nervous or excited, Becca was the only person who knew she was a proper chav now, she didn't know how her mates would react to seeing the changes from the stuck up little bitch she used to be. Emily figured if it came to she'd just have to give them a kicking if they got too mouthy with her.

On the way Becca said they needed to stop for supplies at the corner shop. While Becca was getting the stuff Emily slipped a bottle of wine into her handbag; she had never stolen anything before, but the act gave her a thrill, she could feel her nipples getting hard because she was doing something she knew was wrong, something that carried an element of danger if she got caught. She couldn't help but turn towards the security camera and pose for the old man who owned the shop.

Emily laughed to herself that she was likely to give the old bloke either a hard-on or a heart attack if he saw it later.        

***

Emily was exhilarated leaving the shop, she couldn't remember the last time she’d had this much fun. She staggered and laughed as she opened her bag to show Becca what she had done. 

“Your turning into a proper bad bitch Emz! I'm proper glad we’re mates again!” The name hit Emily and sunk in, ‘Emz’ fit way better for a girl like her. Emily was a name for nerd, Emz was a proper name for a chav like her. 

“You’re not like mad or anything that I've done this to you?” said Becca with a serious look in her eye. 

“Babe I'm pissed” said Emily trying to match Becca’s serious expression before bursting out into laughter. “Pissed you didn't do it sooner ‘n pissed I didn't get tits like yours!” Emz lurched forward and grabbed Becca’s tits to emphasize her point not caring that she was in the middle of the street where everyone could see. A middle-aged woman pushing a pram tutted as she passed and Emz responded without thinking. "You got a problem or somethin' you frigid old cunt?" Both girls laughed as they made their way down the street.

***

As they got closer to the park, both girls turned when they heard, "Oi, oi Bex, you're looking tight tonight." Emz recognised him. It took her a second to place his name. It was Darren. He had been in the year above her at school. What Emz had never realised before was just how fit he was.

Darren wrapped his arm around Becca. "Who's this gorgeous little tart, then? I don't recognise her."

"This is my mate Emz." holding her cigarette Emz did a little spin so Darren could properly check her out and added, "You like what you see then hansom?"

"Wait, I know you, ain't you that bitch who grassed on me for knocking the shite out of Joey Monson?" Emz was that bitch or rather Emily had been. At the time she had been appaled by the violence, now she just found it funny and a little bit of a turn-on. Luckily Becca, was there to defend her. 

"Yeah, but she ain't like that no more, she's proper sorry about that, ain't ya babes?" 

"Proper soz, I was a cow back then, but like Bex says I ain't like that no more." Emz took a long drag on her cigarette to emphasise the point.

"what say you make it up to me then?" Darren stepped away from Becca toward Emz and adjusted his cock. Emz could tell from the bulge that in his tracksuit bottoms that he must have been packing a monster. Playing cot she responded while licking her lip. 

"whatcha have in mind then babe?" Darren came closer again and put his arm around her waist, resting his hand on her arse and giving it a squeeze.

"Why don't you come with me and I'll show ya. Emz could feel herself getting wet, and realised that she was gagging for it. 

"Lead the way then lover boy." she said with a smirk as Darren started guiding towards the back of an abandoned house.    

What was left of the garden was overgrown and full of rubbish. Darren positioned himself against the wall and dropped his bottoms and boxers. Emz was transfixed, she could honestly say she had never seen a cock so big before, hell she had never seen any cock in real life before, but she knew enough to know his was a monster. Her mouth instinctively opened at the sight of it, her body already knowing what it wanted and needed. 

"You just gonna stand there 'n look at it? Or are ya still too much of a prude? Emz walked up to Darren and started making out with him as she used her hand to stroke his cock. Breaking the kiss she purred in his ear, "Let's find out." She could feel him getting harder each time she moved her hand up and down. His firmness felt like it belonged in her hand. She could tell Darren was enjoying it and that only turned her on more. Emz was vaguely aware that Becca was watching and had her phone in her hand, but she was more focused on how pretty her nails looked wrapped around his member than what Becca was doing. Her hand seem so small in comparison. 

"What ya waiting for slut, on your knees" Emz felt a shiver of pleasure run through her as Darren called her a slut. As she did what he told her and got to her knees she used one hand to hold her hair behind her head and then ran her tongue along the underside of his dick before putter her mouth over the tip. 

"mmmm fuck, you really are a dirty little slut now." each word he spoke only made Emz wetter and she brought her free hand to pussy and began rubbing. She had never felt as horny in her life, giving her first blowjob to some lad she hardly knew behind a building. She loved the feeling of his cock against her inflated lips and understood now why they were called DSLs. 

Becca was sitting a short distance away swigging from the bottle Emz had stolen earlier.

Part of her felt she should feel bad for what she had done to Emily, but she just didn't. She knew Emz would be happier this way and she looked like she was having fun with her hand in her panties and the enthusiasm she had as her head bopped up and down. Becca could feel her nipples getting hard watching her former goodie two-shoes friend suck cock like a pro. Reaching into her pocket Becca took out her phone and started recording.

Darren brought his hand to the back of her head and forced his cock further down her throat. Emz fought the urge to gag and was able to suppress it as saliva dripped down her chin. Moving her head back and forth faster she heard him say "You fucking love that don't you slag?" Emz broke momentarily from sucking him off and between gasps for air said "I fucking love it." With Darren's rock hard cock back in her mouth he said. "Tell me you're a dirty little slut who loves my big cock" Breaking off again Emz repeated what he said, "I'm a dirty little slut who loves your big cock." She could feel his cock twitch when she gulped on it once more and she knew he was nearing cumming. Emz was close too, her fingers were gliding in and out of her wet slit faster and faster. "Tell me again, Tell me what you are!" 

"I'm a slut" Rub, gulp, twitch, moan.

"I'm a whore" Rub, gulp, twitch, moan.

"I'm a bitch" Rub, gulp, twitch, moan.  The cycle repeated. Emz was so close to cumming, every word she spoke took her closer to the edge.

"I'm just" Rub, gulp, twitch, moan "a chav" Rub, gulp, twitch, moan "slut" Rub, gulp, twitch, moan, CUM. Emz felt Darren's load hit the back of her mouth and it caused her to moan out in pleasure as she came along with him. She sat back on the ground trying to catch her breath and could feel a dribble of his cum she wasn't able to swallow drip on her tits. She felt giddy, she felt numb, she felt pins and needles on every millimetre of her skin, she felt incredible. 

TO BE CONTINUED  

[ravensolo77]

The Sirens Call.

This story follows four young men in autumnal Coastal Haven, their lives upended by a mysterious supernatural event. A dark force awakens, twisting bonds and faith, leading to a haunting reckoning, veiled in mist and whispers.

Chapter One: The Faithful Depart

Beneath a bruised autumn sky, the cacophony of gulls echoed across Coastal Haven's rugged cliffs as four friends—Ethan, Caleb, Noah, and Liam—prepared their second-hand schooner, The Faithful, for a weekend fishing adventure. The harbor of Virginia was thick with the scent of salt and tar, as waves crashed against barnacle-encrusted supports. Devout Christians, still innocent at eighteen, and leaders of the youth group, they held their nerdy, Christian girlfriends—Abby, Grace, Hannah, and Sarah—in high regard.

Ethan, solidly built with cropped chestnut locks, hazel irises, and a pronounced jawline, adjusted the rigging with steady hands honed from carpentry. Caleb, lean and possessing deep brown eyes, had curly black hair and a gentle smile as he stared at the distant horizon. Noah, slim with sun-kissed blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a sprinkle of freckles, tested the anchor with a playful grin. Liam, slender with fair skin, vivid green eyes, and auburn hair tied back, busily jotted down prayers, his poetic demeanor providing a calming presence.

At the dock, their girlfriends waited, each unique in her own way. Abby, with her auburn braids framing a fuller figure and green eyes, had cheeks speckled with acne, thick glasses perched on her nose, and a loose-fitting dress that hung comfortably on her frame. Grace, a bit rounder with straight blonde hair and blue eyes hidden behind large glasses, had a forehead dotted with pimples as she held onto her scarf tightly. Hannah, stocky in build with curly red hair and brown eyes, bore the marks of acne on her cheeks as she wore round glasses and moved with a certain awkwardness. Lastly, Sarah, who was chubby with long black hair and dark eyes that gleamed against her olive skin, had a hint of acne but wore a soft, serene expression as she stood in her cozy sweater.

Abby playfully jabbed at Ethan, saying, "Catch a fish, not trouble." He laughed, replying, "Only for you, Abs." Grace gently nudged Caleb, "Just be careful, dreamer." He winked back, saying, "God’s got our backs." Hannah called out to Noah, "Don’t forget to bring a seashell!" Noah saluted, responding, "One seashell, on its way!" Sarah wrapped her arms around Liam, saying, "Make sure you come back, poet." He murmured, "Always." The boys yelled, "See you Wednesday!" as The Faithful sailed into the Atlantic, the hull groaning beneath a crimson sunset. The girls prayed, blissfully unaware of the siren’s beckoning waiting for them.

On their initial day, they cast their nets beneath a radiant sun, the ocean shimmering. Ethan pulled up a mackerel, exclaiming, "First catch!" Caleb weaved a story of Jonah, "Do you see a whale?" Noah chuckled, "Only if it's after you!" Liam drew, "The canvas of God." They broke bread, prayed—"Keep us safe, Lord," Ethan offered—and feasted on fish, the boat rocking gently.

On the second day, Noah suited up in scuba gear, his flashlight cutting through the ocean’s vibrant turquoise waters. "I’m going to discover something amazing," he told Ethan, who rolled his eyes, "Just don’t get us into trouble." Noah resurfaced, clutching an obsidian chest, its surface adorned with intricate swirling runes that shimmered softly. "Look at this treasure!" he exclaimed, seawater spilling from his hands. The objects—a silver bangle, a beaded bracelet, a gold ring, and a fine chain—vibrated as the mist thickened around them. "This feels off," Caleb remarked. "It’s just junk," Liam dismissed it with a shrug. Ethan frowned and said, "We should leave it alone." But Noah's excitement prevailed. Ethan took the bangle, Caleb grabbed the bracelet, Noah kept the ring, and Liam took the chain. As dusk descended, the runes on the artifact began to glow rhythmically.

That night, separated in their bunks, a haunting siren’s voice infiltrated their dreams, beckoning, 'You belong to me, my everlasting queens.' Their bodies quivered as a glimmering mist surrounded The Faithful. With the siren's song reaching its peak, their figures began to vanish, transforming the schooner. By sunrise, a sleek yacht shone impressively, its teak decks gleaming and chrome rails sparkling. In luxurious cabins, alone, rested Elise, Chloe, Nadia, and Lila, their goddess-like forms stirring to life.

Elise awoke, making her way gracefully to a lavish mirror. Her dark tresses flowed like silk, her violet eyes sparkled, and her full lips curled into a smirk. Her skin glowed like moonlight, accentuating her ample bosom, slim waist, curvaceous hips, and toned legs, with a smoothly shaved area below. As she indulged in pleasure, a smirk on her face, she declared, “Fuck, I’m flawless. This world is my kingdom.”

Chloe stirred from her slumber, confidently walking to her mirror. Her platinum blonde locks glistened, while her icy blue eyes cut through the air, and her cheekbones stood out sharply. Her glowing skin accentuated her full breasts, cinched waist, curvy hips, and elegant legs, with a golden strip atop her intimate area. As she touched herself to climax, she let out a cackle, saying, "I’m an absolute queen, darlings. Bow down to me."

Nadia stood up, her chestnut curls cascading wildly, amber eyes glowing with intensity, lips provocatively pursed. Her sun-kissed skin accentuated her voluptuous figure, with a defined waist, full hips, and athletic legs, her pubic hair tastefully groomed. As she reached her peak, she breathed out, "I'll burn this town down, bitches."

Lila strolled towards her mirror, her jet-black hair cascading down her back, emerald eyes shining brightly, and lips painted a vivid crimson. Her ethereal skin highlighted her pert breasts, slim waist, and flared hips, complemented by elegant legs. With her pussy flawlessly shaved, she sighed in pleasure, declaring, 'Men plead and then shatter. I am their ultimate goddess.'

Ethan, Caleb, Noah, and Liam had their thoughts wiped clean, along with their beliefs and romantic partners, as the artifact's golden glow throbbed with the siren's spell, feeding their cruel and unfulfilled desires.

Chapter Two: The Empire Rises

The town of Coastal Haven was thrown into turmoil when the Coast Guard revealed pieces of The Faithful—Ethan's ripped jacket and Noah's shredded shirt—suggesting the boys were gone. Mourning enveloped the community, with imposing cliffs nearby and fishing boats rocking in the water. Within the church, the light streaming through the stained-glass windows cast a holy glow on Abby, Grace, Hannah, and Sarah as they prayed together. "I miss Ethan so much," Abby whispered, her acne flaring up with her emotion. "Caleb is with God now," Grace stated, her glasses sliding down. "Noah’s still out there," Hannah said with a deep sigh, holding a seashell tightly. "Liam is coming back to us," Sarah said softly, her chin marked by faint acne. Their belief remained unshaken, unaware of the schemes brewing around them. Once they finished praying, they found themselves eating more than usual, trying to fill the void left by the men they loved.

In the shadows, Elise, Chloe, Nadia, and Lila forged their clandestine empire. The artifact, a fountain of gold with runes engraved on its coins, flowed ceaselessly—each drop on the obsidian led to a blood ritual that multiplied their riches, their laughter rising in the moonlit night. They swept through Fifth Avenue in New York, the boutiques shimmering around them. In a lavish penthouse, Chloe shattered a champagne glass, her laughter ringing out, "I’m a fucking queen!" Elise shot back with a sneer, "Gold purchases thrones, ladies." "And men to conquer," Nadia quipped, her ring catching the light as she spun it. "I’ll shatter hearts after breaking men," Lila added, her chain dancing at her hip. Surrounded by mountains of silk and leather, their vanity echoed like a seductive song.

Porsches thundered down the misty roads of Coastal Haven, causing seagulls to scatter. "My crown!" Elise proclaimed confidently. "Speed is my slave," Chloe revved the engine. "Men are drawn to fast cars," Nadia chuckled. "Control has its allure," Lila purred softly. In a luxurious Manhattan penthouse with a sparkling skyline, they schemed together. "To power—sex, money, and us," Elise toasted, her bangles glinting. "I’ll take on challengers," Chloe grinned, her bracelet shining bright. "Bitches will kneel or face the consequences," Nadia declared, tossing her ring aside. "Their tears will be my drink," Lila whispered seductively. The curse vibrated with energy, their history swept away.

They discovered a mansion perched on the cliff, its glass exterior reflecting the ocean waves, as chandeliers cast vibrant rainbows throughout the rooms. By the month's end, they had claimed it as their own. "Our palace," Nadia commented, her ring shimmering. "My wreck," Lila joked with a laugh. "Let’s set it on fire!" Chloe cackled gleefully. "Our domain," Elise sneered, her bangle shining brightly.

Chapter Three: The Queens Ascend

The girls invaded Coastal Haven High, the courtyard littered with leaves and the air tinged with salt. Heels echoed as their mesmerizing beauty immobilized students—boys stared in awe, girls muttered quietly, the flagpole chain rattling in the background. Before long, they took the throne, their wicked charm undisputed.

Each targeted their former flame with personalized cruelty. Elise trapped Abby in the hallway, the lights buzzing overhead and lockers shining. "Crying over your loser, fatso?" she mocked, her violet eyes aflame, bangles jiggling. Abby, with her auburn braids falling flat and acne flaring, stuttered, "You’re so cruel." Elise slammed her against the lockers, a loud clang echoing, hissing, "I’ll wipe the floor with your pimpled face!" She put on a show, claiming Abby chased after boys, scribbling 'whore' on her locker. "Pray harder, bitch," Elise cackled. "You’re just pathetic," Abby wept. "You’re absolutely nothing," Elise shot back, pushing her again.

In the library's shadowy depths, Chloe sprang at Grace, the towering bookshelves looming ominously. "Running away, Caleb left you, huh, ugly?" she spat, her icy blue eyes cutting through the air, her bracelet glinting menacingly. Grace, with her lank blonde hair and glaring acne, whispered, "You're devoid of compassion." With a violent shove, Chloe slammed her against a nearby locker, her voice low and menacing, "I'll smash your pathetic face!" She tainted Grace's drink, ruining her choir performance, sharing memes that mocked her with the title 'nun loser.' "Wishing for nerdy purity to die!" Chloe howled with laughter. "What’s with all the hate?" Grace cried out, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Honestly, you’re a total joke," Chloe retorted with a sneer.

Nadia cornered Hannah in the deserted gym, the bleachers looming empty around them. 'Deluded fool, hearing voices?' she chuckled, her amber eyes burning with intensity, the ring on her finger shimmering. Hannah, her red curls unruly and cheeks marked by acne, replied defiantly, 'Noah’s still alive.' With a swift motion, Nadia pressed her against a locker, baring her teeth as she growled, 'I’ll crush your fat head!' She twisted the truth, framing Hannah for vandalism, painting her as 'crazy.' 'You’re worthless,' Nadia jeered. 'You don’t understand him,' Hannah shot back. 'You’re absolute trash,' Nadia retorted harshly.

Lila trapped Sarah in the restroom, the tiles chilling beneath their feet. "Aren't you just a charity case?" she mocked, her emerald eyes flashing and her chains shimmering. Sarah, with her messy black hair and acne-speckled chin, replied softly, "Why?" Lila shoved her against a locker, snarling, "I'll tear you apart!" She falsely accused Sarah of stealing and kicked her out of the charity event. "You mean nothing to anyone," Lila hissed. "I'm doing my best," Sarah implored. "Get on a diet, loser," Lila cackled.

Their ruthlessness extended, sirens impervious. "These geeks are finished," Elise remarked, her bangle glinting. "Wretched idiots," Chloe sneered. "They’ll beg," Nadia chuckled. "Their sorrow is my tiara," Lila purred.

Chapter Four: Seduction’s Siren Song

The sirens spread their allure to the families of their lovers, their enchanting beauty captivating, each demanding an invitation. Elise approached Abby's door, the porch creaking underfoot, the sea mist swirling around her. Jake, 19, responded, his short brown hair tousled, sharp blue eyes piercing, his muscular build evident with calloused hands from his work as a mechanic. "Who are you?" he inquired. "Your new goddess," Elise replied softly, her violet eyes sparkling. "Show me to your room," she whispered, her bangle shimmering, her tone entrancing. Inside his bedroom, adorned with fading posters, she began to undress—her raven tresses, radiant skin, full breasts, alluring curves, and sculpted legs on full display. "Tired of Abby's jealousy and complaints?" she purred, playing on his annoyance. She knelt down, taking him into her mouth, a crescent-shaped mark glowing on his belly, signifying her claim on him. "Take me, Jake," she breathed, her words slurring slightly. "You'll treat Abby with nothing but scorn for me, won’t you, Jake? I'll reward you more if you do." He hissed, struggling—"She's my sister"—but ultimately yielding, his eyes flickering with a faint glow. "For you, my queen, I'll do anything."

Chloe rapped softly on Grace's door, the crackling of the fireplace echoing in the background. Tom, a 40-year-old man with graying brown hair and tired hazel eyes, stocky in build, opened the door. 'What do you need?' he inquired. 'I’m here to liberate you,' Chloe purred seductively. 'Lead me to your bedroom,' she murmured, her bracelet aglow. In the low light of the room, she began to undress—platinum blonde hair, icy blue eyes, her skin luminous, voluptuous breasts, curvy hips, long, elegant legs, and a trimmed blonde strip adorning her vagina. 'This is about Grace’s incessant nagging, isn’t it?' she teased, probing his insecurities. Their bodies intertwined, a crescent mark glowing on his pelvis, her bracelet pulsating with energy. 'Claim me, mistress,' she moaned. 'Perfect,' he gasped, battling against his instincts—'My daughter'—but succumbing, his gaze brightening. You'll be extremely cruel to her. You’ll do it for me, won’t you, Tom?

Nadia rapped gently on Hannah's door, the corridors shrouded in twilight. Mia, 18, with her choppy short black hair and cautious brown eyes, opened the door. Her slender figure was adorned with freckles, and her thin lips were pursed in curiosity, having never been with a woman before. 'Who are you?' she inquired. 'Your new temptation,' Nadia responded, her amber eyes glinting with allure. 'Show me to your room,' she murmured, her ring shimmering. Inside Mia’s room, adorned with twinkling fairy lights, Nadia began to undress, revealing her chestnut curls, amber eyes, golden-toned skin, lush breasts, curvy hips, and toned legs, with a neatly trimmed vagina. 'Hannah's a bit unhinged, isn’t she?' she teased. Leaning down, Nadia licked Mia’s vagina, relishing its sweetness, as Mia giggled and purred with delight. A crescent symbol glimmered on Mia's vagina, Nadia's ring glowing with energy. 'You're mine,' Mia whispered, her laughter mingling with her desires. 'But she's my sister,' she protested, yet Nadia's captivating voice prevailed, her eyes radiating with intensity.

Lila rapped lightly on the door of Sarah's cottage, leaves dancing in the breeze. Christina, 38, Sarah's mother who had lost her husband, opened the door. Her auburn hair was tied back neatly, green eyes shimmering with curiosity, and her curvy figure was wrapped in a modest dress. "What can I do for you?" she inquired. "I’m here to give you everything," Lila purred seductively. "Lead me to your bedroom," she whispered, the chain around her glimmering enticingly. Inside the softly lit bedroom, Lila began to undress—her jet-black hair cascading down her shoulders, emerald eyes sparkling, ethereal skin on display, pert breasts rising and falling, flared hips accentuated, and gracefully shaped legs. "You feel so alone," she cooed, drawing closer. Their bodies intertwined, a crescent brand igniting on Christina's womanhood, the chain connecting them. "Take me," Lila sighed, laughter dancing in her voice. "Yes mistress," Christina gasped, momentarily resisting—"Lord, save me"—only to yield, her eyes alight with desire.

Chapter Five: The Families Fracture

In the dining area, the candles danced in the dim light, the aroma of roasted lamb and warm apples filling the air. Abby sat next to Jake, her auburn braids flat against her shoulders, glasses foggy from the warmth, her acne glaringly visible. Their parents, Ellen—a curvy, blonde nurse—and Mark, a balding, gruff fisherman, passed dishes around the table, the atmosphere thick with tension. Normally, Jake would stand up for Abby against the absence of Ethan, but today he was silent, his blue eyes glimmering in an unsettling way. Tears flowed down Abby's cheeks as she cried, 'I miss Ethan so much.' Ellen sighed heavily, 'That’s enough, Abby.' Mark interjected with a grunt, 'Time to move on.' Jake's gaze intensified, the crescent brand on his navel glowing, while Elise's taunt lingered in the air. 'You’re a pathetic whore,' he hissed, his kindness turning cold. Ellen gasped in disbelief, 'Jake!' Mark went still, taken aback. Abby felt the sting of her acne as tears cascaded down her face, her fiery red glasses fogging up. 'You don’t believe that,' she murmured. 'You’re a loser,' Jake retorted, his voice slurred as he withdrew into himself. Abby ran from the room, slamming her door and locking it tightly behind her, her sobs resounding as her world crumbled around her.

In the kitchen, soft morning light poured through delicate lace curtains, steam rising from cups of coffee and pancakes piled high. Grace sat next to Tom, her blonde hair tangled, acne prominent, and her glasses sliding down her nose. Mother, Linda, a gray-haired librarian, filled glasses with juice while sister Mia, 16, slim and freckled, focused on her phone. Tom, who was usually kind, gripped his mug tightly, his eyes cold, the symbol on his pelvis burning within him. Grace said quietly, 'I've been praying for Caleb.' Linda sighed, 'It’s been weeks since we heard from him.' Mia scoffed, 'Just move on already.' Tom's gaze intensified, a flicker of anger coursing through him. 'Grow up, you whiny brat!' he shouted, his words sharp. Grace recoiled, her acne flaring up with shame, tears pooling in her eyes. 'Why, Dad?' she whispered. 'You're such a sad excuse for a person,' Tom mocked, his usual warmth replaced by cruelty. Linda exclaimed, 'Tom!' Grace shrank back, the pancakes untouched on her plate, her faith wavering, a scarf wrapped tightly around her as tears soaked her pillow.

In the dining area, fairy lights sparkled, while sandwiches and salad appeared vibrant. Hannah sat next to Mia, her red curls frizzy, acne marking her cheeks, and her glasses crooked. Parents Susan, a brunette teacher, and David, a bearded carpenter, ate silently. Mia, who had once been Hannah’s closest friend, poked at her food, her brown eyes devoid of warmth, a crescent mark pulsing ominously. Hannah leaned closer and whispered, 'I dreamed Noah called.' Susan let out a weary sigh, 'That's enough.' David grumbled, 'Just let it go.' Mia’s eyes ignited with malice, Nadia’s cruelty lingering. 'You’re insane!' she jeered, laughter lacing her words. Hannah felt her acne sting, tears welling up. 'Mia, please don't,' she said through clenched teeth. 'You’re just a crazy nerd!' Mia shot back, giggling derisively. Susan interjected sharply, 'Mia!' In that moment, Hannah bolted, shaking, feeling as if she were made of seashells, her spirit shattered.

In the cozy cottage, the lamplight wrapped around them, stew giving off a warm steam and the bread was perfectly crusty. Sarah faced Christina, whose black hair was disheveled, acne speckling her chin, and glasses misting over. Christina’s sister, Ruth, a 40-year-old seamstress with auburn hair, alongside her shy, freckled niece Emma, 16, settled in. Christina, once a fervent believer, stirred the stew, her hard green eyes reflecting an inner turmoil, the brand on her body burning with shame. Sarah softly said, “I prayed for Liam.” Ruth let out a weary sigh, “It’s time to move on.” Emma added in a low voice, “It’s sad.” Christina's eyes flared with anger, a surge of venom coursing through her. “You’re nothing but a pathetic worm!” she mocked, her laughter transparent and slightly slurred. Sarah recoiled, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Mom, why?” she whispered in disbelief. “You’re just a useless nerd,” Christina replied coldly, all warmth absent. Ruth gasped in shock, “Christina!” In a daze, Sarah fled, heartbroken, her sobs muffled in her room as her faith crumbled.

The girlfriends’ torture was relentless, each betrayal a wound, their families’ love twisted by the sirens’ curse.

Chapter Six: The Sirens’ Reign

As the month came to a close, Abby, Grace, Hannah, and Sarah were mere specters of their former selves, their lives shattered under the tyrannical rule of the Sirens at Coastal Haven High. Meanwhile, Elise, Chloe, Nadia, and Lila, embracing their new identities as the Sirens, descended further into malevolence, taking pleasure in the torment of their former girlfriends.

Elise cornered Abby in the cafeteria, the sound of trays crashing mingling with the laughter of other students. "Pathetic pig!" she spat, her violet eyes aflame and her bracelet shaking with fury. She shoved Abby into a locker, her voice piercing as she threatened, "I’ll ruin your face!" She uploaded Abby’s diary to the internet, the heartfelt entries about Ethan mocked with the caption, "Nerd begs for attention." "You’re nothing but a joke," Elise cackled, sending Abby's glasses flying with a kick. Humiliated, Abby crawled away, her confidence faltering.

Chloe trapped Grace in the courtyard, the sound of leaves crunching beneath her feet. "You ugly loser!" she spat, her icy blue eyes gleaming, bracelet flashing in the sunlight. With a fierce shove, she slammed Grace against a locker, snarling, "I’ll break your neck!" She ruined Grace’s science project, setting her up for cheating, causing her grades to plummet. "You won't survive this, geek!" Chloe cackled as she uploaded videos mocking Grace. Grace felt her spirit shatter, clutching her scarf like a lifeline.

Nadia trapped Hannah in the dimly lit locker room, the tiles glistening with moisture. "Deluded freak!" she spat, her amber eyes burning with intensity, her ring throbbing with anger. She shoved Hannah against the metal locker, snarling, "I’ll smash your pudgy head!" Fabricating stories that Hannah was stalking boys, she yanked her seashell necklace, breaking it into pieces. "You’re nothing but trash," Nadia jeered. Hannah fell to the floor, her aspirations lying in ruins.

Lila cornered Sarah in the dimly lit auditorium, the stage lights casting eerie shadows. "Rolls of shame!" she taunted, her emerald eyes sparkling, chain glinting in the low light. She pushed Sarah roughly against the locker, venom seeping into her words, "I’ll slice you apart!" Fabricating messages, she claimed Sarah had pleaded for help, ostracized by her own church community. "You’re worthless," Lila scoffed, tripping Sarah to the ground. Sarah felt her dreams shatter, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Later that week at the autumn festival, the pier sparkled with twinkling fairy lights, the waves crashing loudly, and the air thick with the scent of caramel. The sirens hosted a 'charity' auction, their trinkets shimmering as they expertly influenced the bidders. Elise captivated the pastor, a brand tattooed on his belly. 'Heavenly,' he whispered. Chloe mesmerized the mayor, marking him with a brand on his hip. 'Whatever you need,' he said. Nadia delighted the audience, their cheers almost a chorus. Lila enticed the fishermen, brands guaranteeing their loyalty.

Abby, Grace, Hannah, and Sarah stood frozen, their hearts broken. "Monsters," Grace murmured, her glasses clouded with emotion. "They’ve wrecked everything," Hannah lamented, her necklace turned to dust in her pocket. The Sirens gathered at the edge of the pier, a crowd kneeling before them. "This town belongs to us, scum!" Elise shrieked, her bangle shimmering. "Next, we’ll take the world," Chloe scoffed. "They'll submit to us," Nadia hissed, moving stealthily. "Their tears are the jewels of our crown," Lila sang, gliding gracefully. On the balcony, as waves crashed below, they schemed for global domination, the artifact’s golden light pulsing, their siren song unyielding.

[ravensolo77]

BLAME HER, NOT ME

PART 1: ASCENSION

It was Jim's curse to always be used by other people because he was too nice. He was one of life's push-overs.

As his once loving ex-girlfriend threw his bags out into the street and laughed nastily as his former best-friend pushed past him with an arrogant grin to walk inside... he was left cold and empty on the street.

"You can keep your keys loser, we've changed the locks anyway," giggled Izzy as Liam slid an arm round her waist and gave her a deep sloppy kiss.

"Mmmmh, sorry dude. Your girl is mine now. Blame her... not me. She is such a good fuck and led me astray."

"Mmmh you know I am. Take me inside and do me right now. My pussy is dripping wet having finally dumped this loser. Fuck me doggy style in the bed he used to share with me."

Laughing the evil couple headed inside slamming the door and leaving Jim standing in the street, his keys still in his hand.

Jim felt a curious mix of helplessness and rage. He had always been resigned to being too nice for his own good, but for a while with Izzy he thought he'd finally met someone who loved him. She'd turned out to be cruel and evil, just using him whilst she rebounded from her last relationship. When she'd met Liam, his hot sporty friend, sparks had flown. Now he'd lost a friend and a lover.

Blame her, not me.

That reminded him of something. Something he'd tried to resist until now.

Jim looked down at the keys in his hand. His eyes were drawn to one key different to the rest. It was made of a dull black metal and was curiously fashioned. This key opened no lock, it was a different kind of key.

This key opened up potential. Evil potential. That was why he had never used it... and yet... here it still was on his key ring. He'd always told himself he kept it because it served as a temptation to resist, a challenge to overcome. The allure of easy power and revenge took character to overcome. It took grit... but maybe there were other darker reasons he had never thrown it away.

He had been given the key two years ago by a blonde girl he had helped out of a jam at great personal cost to himself. She'd used him just like everyone else, then mocked him and taking some form of pity on him given him the key, telling him when he was finally tired of being a loser he could use the key and change his life. The key would blacken his soul... give him a new life... unlock the evil potential within him.

All he had to do was hold it in his hands and say 'loser, loser, looooser,' in a mocking tone and he would be transformed. He'd sworn he would never use it.

My pussy is dripping wet dumping this loser.

Jim felt his teeth grind and a snarl appear on his face. He was tired of being a door mat. He wanted to hurt Izzy and Liam... but he knew he wasn't strong enough to do it.

"Loser," he spat, holding the key tightly, "loser... looooser!"

Jim regretted what he'd done almost instantly... but it was too late. The key in his hand glowed and he gasped as the world spun around him and changed. No... he was the one changing and it felt amazing.

The key floated out of his hand and leapt to his neck. Instantly a black choker formed and it hung there like a dominatrixes chastity key, bouncing as his bones popped and his body writhed.

"What's uhhhh happening to meee?" wailed Jim as his body shrank and grew slimmer and more feminine shaped. Wide hips popped out and a shapely ass slowly inflated as his boys clothes hung baggy on his now feminine frame.

"Fuckkkk I feel goooood."

Soft pink lips parted in a wicked pout as Jim ripped the glasses from his face and threw them to the ground. His sneakers became black stiletto boots and with a giggle he crushed his glasses beneath them, giggling in pleasure as he heard them crunch.

His vision was perfect now... dark, wicked, hypnotic eyes gazing out on the world. He wouldn't be needing to wear those again.

Jim's stance shifted and he adopted a confident feminine posture. His other clothing began to change as he shook free his hair and felt it cascade down his shoulders and back in a elegant femme-fatale style.

A tight black corset crushed in Jim's waist and long black gloves ran down his arms. Beneath the sheer material, his short fingernails became sharp and manicured... perfect lacquered tips extending into points.

Jim purred as his hands went to his chest and he sighed in satisfaction as his chest began to swell. It felt good to feel his womanly breasts growing on his chest even as his useless dick began to slither away to nothing between his legs.

"This feels soooo much better," sniggered Jim as he stretched and felt the pull of his perfect body, toned muscles and smooth skin. He felt like a Goddess.

No... SHE felt like a Goddess.

As perfect makeup shimmered into place and the smell of expensive perfume rose from her skin, the woman who had been Jim felt her face relax into an evil bitchy expression of dominance and power.

Cruel twisted thoughts flowed through her mind as useless emotions such as kindness and helpfulness were replaced with new ideas such as selfishness and narcissism.

Genevieve smiled as she admired herself in a nearby car mirror. She was perfection personified... the very model of the evil feminine trope that no man could resist. Slender, elegant, cruel and dominant she commanded attention just by existing.

She played with the key above her perfect breasts... it was now white and pure, polarised by the transformation. If she just said the phrase no doubt she'd turn back into Jim.

She took off the key and slid it safely into her handbag.

Mistress Genevieve or Lady Genevieve would suit her very well. She needed to be spoiled, she needed to have power. But most of all she needed revenge on those who had wronged her.

Not because she cared what had happened to Jim... not because it mattered... but simply because it would be so much fun to put Izzy and Liam in their place.

Just because she could.

Laughing a rich evil laugh and winking at an embarrassed older man who she caught staring at her in lust, Goddess Genevive turned and walked with a clop of heels into her new existence as an evil manipulative bitch.

***

PART 2: REVENGE

THREE MONTHS LATER

Liam yawned lazily, stroking Izzy's long blonde hair fondly as they lay together naked and entangled. They were both sheened with sweat after another marathon fuck session. Discarded condoms lay around the room.

Liam grinned. How the fuck had Jim ever kept this insatiable bitch satisfied?

"Ughhh I should get up and get ready for work," yawned Izzy.

"Really? I thought you could do whatever you wanted now you and the business manager are in cahoots."

"Shhhh. I wish I'd never told you about that. Fiddling the accounts is kind of illegal but luckily the idiot sent me pics of his dick after being drunk at a party so now I own his ass."

She picked up a Gucci handbag. "Which has its benefits. Still I better show up and make it look like I'm working."

Liam slapped her ass and she walked off giggling heading to the shower. He opened his phone and browsed social media. He'd catch up with some news and then maybe hit the gym.

Going into his secure folder, Liam checked his Tinder profile and other sex apps almost from habit. Izzy was currently making him very happy but he still liked to play the field. After all, she'd cheated on Jim so who was to say she wouldn't betray him too?

He sighed as he thought of Jim. The guy had gone missing months ago after the break up and no one had seen him. He hoped he was okay and hadn't thrown himself off a bridge or something.

As he scrolled, he noticed he had a push notification.

Goddess Genevive? Who was that?

Opening the app, he whistled appreciatively. Wow, she was hot. Hitting subscribe he began to scroll her page....

***

SIX MONTHS LATER

Knocking nervously on the door to the hotel room, Liam checked the address again and felt his heart hammering in his chest.

He'd never done anything like this before and yet he had never been so excited. He was beginning to wonder if he was a sex addict or was just seriously fucked up. It felt like for the last three months his life had begun to spin apart.

First he'd stolen Izzy from his best mate (who no one had seen in six months now) and then he'd found himself in thrall to a woman who he had only ever met online after a chance encounter.

"Come in."

Then again had it been chance? He sometimes felt like the Goddess had been the one who had chosen him!

After 3 months of messages, edging sessions, increasing findom control and growing subservience from Liam - he was no longer sure.

Entering the hotel room, Liam felt his breath catch as he saw the Goddess waiting for him on the bed.

"Welcome slave. I've been expecting you..."

***

NINE MONTHS LATER

Liam gasped and squirmed as the ropes bit deep into his wrists and ankles. The ball gag was deep in his mouth and he could hear the wet sound of lube being squirted as Goddess Genevive got her strap on ready.

"You're making such good progress slave. You hardly ever whimper when I peg your ass anymore."

Liam gurgled as his Mistress slid her giant dildo into his ass and tears of happiness leaked from his eyes.

"But you're still holding back from me... you still need to tell me EVERYTHING about Izzy. Be a good boy and tell Goddess everything."

Liam gasped, his eyes rolling back in pleasure as Genevive expertly massaged his balls and pounded his prostrate... he would do anything for Mistress. Anything.

****

ONE YEAR LATER

Izzy knew she was in the shit the moment she walked into her office to see the auditors.

Mr Smith - the useless bastard she had been milking for over a year now was already being led away in handcuffs.

A smart man in a suit walked over with a tight false smile.

"Ahhhh Miss Green. I'm Agent Knowles. I was wondering if we could ask you some questions about some financial irregularities we've found out about."

Izzy felt a shiver of fear up her back, yet she maintained her air of innocence. She'd taken care to shield herself from any financial trail so hopefully this wouldn't cause her any major difficulties.

She was just beginning to formulate an excuse in her mind when at that exact moment she got a message telling her to go to the ladies from an unknown number.

"Of course, but could I please just visit the restroom quickly?"

Agent Knowles hesitated... and then agreed swiftly. "I'll post an agent by the door but I guess we can allow it. You and I have a lot to discuss."

***

Walking into the washroom Izzy could feel the cold sweat of panic. How the fuck had these bastards tracked her down? She had been careful hadn't she?

"Hello Izzy."

Another woman, absolutely gorgeous and stylish was doing her makeup in the mirror. Izzy looked at her curiously.

"Sorry... do I know you?"

Genevive grinned like a predator as she regarded Izzy. "I guess not. Not anymore. Listen, we don't have much time. The only way out of this building is either in their custody... or by doing exactly what I say."

Izzy blinked in surprise.

"Sorry... I don't know what..."

Genevive grinned as she tossed a paper dossier onto the basin counter. It was thick and comprehensive.

"Take a look if you want. It's a copy of the one I sent to the authorities. Dates... times... places.... payments. You're fucked."

Izzy's mouth dropped open as she flicked through. How the fuck could this woman know any of this? Only Liam had known... what was going on?

"No... this is... you've got everything."

Genevive laughed. "That's right. I do. I know everything. You're finished. Unless..."

Genevive smirked as she tossed Izzy a white key. "There is one way you can leave here. One way you can escape prison... you just have to do exactly as I tell you..."

***

TWO YEARS LATER

Ian bowed his head as he presented Goddess Genevive with her dinner.

It was over a year since he'd used the key to escape punishment and transformed into a weak willed sub for Goddess. Since that day he had served his Goddess faithfully... alongside Liam. The two of them were broken slaves, and they would never be free.

Watching her two slave boys simp for her, Genevive felt a thrill of delicious power. She'd more than had her revenge on these losers and all was right with the word. Being an evi bitch felt delicious.

Dressed in exotic red lingerie like some Empress of old she lorded it over her slaves... her every wish for vengeance and dominance complete.

Goddess Genevive laughed as she thought of all she'd achieved. "Don't blame me... blame Jim..." she laughed as she began preparing to torture her two favourite slaves once again.

Why did it feel so good to be so fucking evil?

Genevive was never turning back into Jim. Her vengeance was complete and she had everything she could have ever wanted. The key was long gone and so was any chance of Jim returning.

Blame her.

Blame her for everything.

THE END

[ravensolo77]

The Raven Chronicles

A Tale of Corruption: The Birth of The Vile Vixens

I have just had my first corruption, and I’m sitting here reminiscing about Ember when I notice new prey. Perched atop the movie theater, its neon lights hum like a dying star, casting a sickly pink-and-blue glow across the cracked marquee. The roof beneath me is a gritty expanse of tar, sticky under my heels, littered with cigarette butts and peeling paint. The air is thick with the scent of exhaust and stale popcorn, a chilly breeze carrying the tang of rain, stirring my raven-black hair like a lover’s caress. My emerald eyes blaze with unholy light, my pale skin luminous against my black lace bodice, its intricate patterns clinging to my curves like a second skin, the flowing skirt trailing like liquid shadow. My massive wings, obsidian and edged with fiery embers, drip molten sparks that sizzle on the roof, the heat a teasing whisper against my skin. Ember’s screams still echo in my ears, her fiery spirit broken under my will, and the memory sends a shiver of delight through me, my lips parting in a predatory smile. I crave more—more souls to taint for Queen Evie Hyde.

Below, I watched twins, who I find out later are named Sara and Lara, step into the night, their red hair blazing like molten copper under the neon’s flickering glow. Barely twenty, they giggle like schoolgirls, their voices tinkling like glass, their vanilla scent sickeningly sweet as it wafts up to me, a cloying purity that makes my lip curl in disgust. Sara adjusts her crimson scarf, its threads soft as a whisper, her fingers brushing her date’s hand, her cream sweater hugging her frame, navy skirt swishing against her thighs, black ankle boots clicking on the pavement. Lara leans into her own boyfriend, her curlier red hair a fiery waterfall, her pale green cardigan and white blouse clinging to her lithe form, denim skirt teasing the tops of her knees, white sneakers scuffing the wet sidewalk. Their joy stings my tongue, their innocence a radiant light that chokes me. I’ll taint them tonight, I hiss to myself, my wings flaring with anticipation, embers sizzling as they fall.

I see Sara’s touch linger on her date, a lanky boy with tousled brown hair and hazel eyes behind glasses, his nervous laugh a stuttering drumbeat in the chilly air, his gray hoodie faded, jeans worn at the knee, sneakers scuffed. Lara’s closeness to her taller boyfriend, his short blonde hair slicked back, gray eyes soft, tanned skin under a pale blue jacket, white t-shirt, dark jeans, and a black beanie, sends a ripple of heat through me—not from their affection, but from the potential for corruption. The sidewalk below is wet, reflecting amber streetlights in shimmering pools, the air crisp with rain-soaked asphalt and cigarette smoke, the theater’s marquee creaking, bulbs buzzing like angry wasps. Soggy leaves cling to the curb, their earthy scent mingling with the city’s hum, a low growl of distant traffic and shouts, but all I can focus on is the twins’ purity, a canvas begging to be defiled.

My gaze devours their forms, their youthful beauty a canvas of untouched snow, their warmth a faint pulse against my icy hunger. My voice slithers like a serpent of smoke, heavy with the tang of brimstone, a sultry whisper that curls through the air. “You shine too brightly,” I purr, my emerald eyes flaring like cursed gems, a predatory heat coiling in my core. My lips part, hunger stirring deep within me, a dark desire to strip them bare—not of their clothes, but of their innocence, to mold them into shadows for my mistress. The roof beneath me is gritty, the air thick with exhaust and rain, the scent of burnt tar sharp as my embers fall, sizzling on the tarry surface, the city’s distant sounds—car horns, a siren, the wind’s howl—mixing with the sour tang of garbage from a nearby bin, a gritty film settling on my tongue.

I descend, my heels silent on the roof’s gritty tar, the air thick with the theater’s buttery popcorn scent fading to my aroma—smoke and wilting roses, sharp as a lover’s bite, a scent that promises forbidden delights. Sara’s breath hitches, her exhale a shaky gust against the night’s chill, her blue eyes widening as if she feels my presence, a heat stirring within her. Lara’s laughter stutters, her skin prickling as if my phantom flames lick her, her freckled cheeks flushing with an unspoken desire. The sidewalk glistens with rain, reflecting neon in fractured pools of pink and blue, the breeze rustling soggy flyers, their ink bleeding into the pavement, the distant clatter of a metal gate echoing like a heartbeat in the night. I feel their innocence waver, a delicious tremor that makes my wings flare, embers dancing in the air.

Their boyfriends’ voices drone, flat as a rusted bell, blind to my allure, but I let my voice seep into Sara’s mind, a velvet ribbon of heat, tasting of charred honey, a seductive whisper that promises dark pleasures. “Feel the fire,” I murmur, my raven hair glinting like wet ink, my wings casting a warm glow. She shivers, her blue eyes darkening to stormy seas, her pulse a frantic drumbeat I can almost taste, her innocence fraying like silk under a blade. The sidewalk below is a cracked canvas of concrete, slick with rain, neon reflections dancing like liquid fire, the air crisp with wet pavement and her vanilla perfume, now tinged with my smoky scent, sharp as a blade. The marquee creaks, bulbs buzzing, shadows jagged on the brick wall, a popcorn bucket rolling across the pavement, its buttery scent fading as my influence grows.

Lara turns, her gaze snared by my glowing eyes, twin emeralds blazing with unholy light, a seductive promise that makes the world melt for her—the theater’s hum, her date’s cologne, all dissolve into a misty haze. I weave magic, my fingers dancing like spider legs, their skittering a faint echo in the air, a sensual rhythm that pulses with desire. “You crave more,” I coo, my voice a syrupy sin, thick with the promise of forbidden ecstasy. Her lips part, a soft moan escaping like a dying star, her body trembling with the first stirrings of corruption. The sidewalk stretches beneath the theater’s flickering lights, the pavement slick with rain, reflecting neon in shimmering pools that ripple with each gust of wind, the air thick with damp concrete and her rosewater perfume, now overwhelmed by my smoky scent, sharp and intoxicating, the brick wall behind them graffitied with faded tags, amber light casting jagged shadows.

My wings flare, embers swirling like fiery moths, their heat kissing my skin with a sizzle, a teasing warmth that mirrors the fire I’m igniting in the twins. I flood their minds with visions—silk sliding over skin like a lover’s sigh, power pulsing like a heartbeat, shadows thick as velvet, a world of dark pleasure waiting to be claimed. Sara’s giggle turns sultry, a velvet growl that sends a shiver down my spine, her touch lingering on her boyfriend’s arm, a possessive edge to her fingers. Lara’s smile sharpens, a dagger’s edge, her breath hot as she presses closer to her boyfriend, her movements a hypnotic dance of desire. The sidewalk is slick, reflecting neon in fractured pools of pink and blue, the air heavy with wet pavement and my smoky scent, their vanilla and rosewater perfumes turning sour with corruption, the marquee creaking, bulbs buzzing like wasps, shadows jagged on the peeling brick wall, the night’s chill biting, a soda can rolling with a hollow clatter.

I watch Sara’s fingers trail down her date’s sleeve, her touch a slow, teasing flame, the fabric rustling like dry leaves, her blue eyes dark with a hunger she doesn’t yet understand, imagining breaking him, his will crumbling like ash under her newfound power. Lara’s body arches, her movements a hypnotic dance, pressing closer to her boyfriend, her breath hot as she whispers something low and wicked, her fingers brushing his arm with a possessive edge. My laughter, a low hum, echoes my dark delight, a sound that vibrates with sensual promise, the air thick with the scent of their corruption, vanilla and rosewater now bitter with my influence. The marquee creaks, shadows jagged on the peeling brick wall, soggy leaves clinging to the curb, their earthy scent mixing with the city’s undercurrent of exhaust and decay, but all I can focus on is the twins’ descent, their innocence melting into something deliciously dark.

The theater’s lights fade to a dull amber, the night thickening with my magic, heavy as velvet drapes, its chill biting my skin like a lover’s nip, a sensation that makes my wings flare wider, embers dancing in the air. Sara tosses her hair, its fiery strands catching moonlight like spilled wine, a sharp, fruity scent wafting up to me, a burst of citrus and berries that makes my mouth water. Lara’s eyes glow, her touch electric as she grasps her twin’s hand, their connection a conduit for my magic, their pulses syncing in a rhythm that mirrors my own. I lead them into the shadows, their boyfriends trailing behind, unaware of the fate I’ve woven for them, their steps hesitant on the slick sidewalk, moonlight reflecting in fractured shards, the air thick with wet pavement and Sara’s citrusy scent, car horns bleating, a siren wailing, the sour tang of garbage wafting from a bin, its lid clanging as a cat leaps onto it.

I guide them through the city’s underbelly, my wings a beacon of smoldering fire, their heat searing the damp air, the scent of wet asphalt rising like a dark perfume, a heady mix that makes my senses hum. Their steps echo, hips swaying like pendulums of sin, a seductive rhythm that makes my core tighten with anticipation. Sara’s laughter cuts like a raven’s cry, sharp and commanding, her boyfriend trailing behind, his eyes wide with confusion. Lara’s touch is possessive, her nails scraping her boyfriend’s arm with a rasp, leaving faint red marks on his skin, a promise of the dominance to come. We reach an old warehouse, its rusted doors groaning like a dying beast, the sound a low, mournful wail that echoes into the cavernous interior, the air inside stale with the tang of rust and decay, old oil and mildew clinging to the cracked concrete floor, chains dangling from the ceiling, their links glinting like silver fangs, their clinks a sinister chime.

Inside, I weave my magic, the warehouse shimmering like a mirage of sin, a playground for corruption. Chains dangle, glinting like silver fangs, their clinks a sinister chime as they sway in the draft, the floor pulsing with dark energy under my feet, a heartbeat that mirrors my own. Their red hair gleams like spilled blood under flickering lights, the bulbs buzzing like trapped flies, casting a sickly yellow glow across rusted beams, flaking paint and spiderwebs trembling in the air. I smile, my voice a velvet blade slicing the silence, dripping with the promise of ruin. “Your new domain, my darlings,” I purr, the words a seductive hymn, the walls lined with broken crates, their splintered wood jutting out like jagged teeth, the air tasting of iron and dust, a gritty film settling on my tongue as I watch their corruption deepen.

Their red hair gleams like spilled blood under the flickering lights, the bulbs buzzing like trapped flies, a sound that grates on my senses, heightening the tension in the air. My fingers graze Sara’s cheek, her shiver a ripple of dark water, her skin fever-hot against my icy touch, her pulse a frantic drumbeat that sends a thrill through me, a dark desire coiling in my core. “For Queen Evie,” I whisper, my voice a sultry hymn, the air tasting of iron and lust, a heady mix that makes my wings flare wider, embers sizzling in the air. Lara leans into my caress, her breath ragged, corruption searing through her like wildfire, its heat licking my senses, a sensual dance of power and submission that makes my lips part in a wicked smile, the warehouse a cavern of shadows, the air thick with rust and decay, chains glinting, their clinks echoing like a lover’s whisper.

Their red hair gleams like spilled blood under the flickering lights, the bulbs buzzing like trapped flies, a sound that grates on my senses, heightening the tension in the air. My fingers graze Sara’s cheek, her shiver a ripple of dark water, her skin fever-hot against my icy touch, her pulse a frantic drumbeat that sends a thrill through me, a dark desire coiling in my core. “For Queen Evie,” I whisper, my voice a sultry hymn, the air tasting of iron and lust, a heady mix that makes my wings flare wider, embers sizzling in the air. Lara leans into my caress, her breath ragged, corruption searing through her like wildfire, its heat licking my senses, a sensual dance of power and submission that makes my lips part in a wicked smile, the warehouse a cavern of shadows, the air thick with rust and decay, chains glinting, their clinks echoing like a lover’s whisper.

They rise, transformed, their laughter a wicked purr, a sound like velvet dragged over thorns, their breaths spiced with malice, a sensual edge to their voices that sends a shiver down my spine. Their red hair, now streaked with inky black, frames eyes glowing like cursed moons, their smirks venomous promises of torment. They turn to their trembling ex-boyfriends, the boys’ eyes wide with fear, their bodies tense as the twins approach with a predatory grace, their movements a dance of dominance and desire. Sara runs her fingers over her ex’s cock through his jeans, her touch slow and teasing, a cruel smile playing on her lips as she feels him tense beneath her, his breath hitching, his fear a sharp, salty tang in the air. Lara mirrors her, her fingers tracing her ex’s cock with a possessive edge, her nails grazing the fabric, her smirk widening as he shudders, his body betraying him under her demonic gaze. They revel in their power, their touches a tormenting promise of suffering, before they cage the boys in chains, the metal clanging against the concrete, their exes’ pleas echoing in the cavernous space, a symphony of despair that makes the twins laugh, their voices dark and commanding, the air thick with the scent of rust and fear, chains glinting, broken crates with splintered wood jutting out, the flickering lights casting a sickly yellow glow.

Now The Vile Vixens, they revel in their corruption, their ex-boyfriends chained, the iron’s cold bite echoing their broken whimpers, a sound sweeter than any melody, their torment a dark aphrodisiac that makes the twins’ laughter ring out, a symphony of darkness. Sara’s fingers linger on the chain, her smirk a promise of further suffering, while Lara’s eyes gleam with a demonic delight, her touch possessive as she adjusts the metal, ensuring their captivity is absolute. I step back, my wings aglow with fiery triumph, their heat a lover’s caress against my skin, a sensual warmth that mirrors the heat of their corruption. “For Queen Evie’s glory,” I purr, my voice dripping with satisfaction, the air thick with the scent of rust and despair, the flickering lights casting jagged shadows across rusted beams, flaking paint and spiderwebs trembling, the concrete floor stained with oily patches, the chains clinking with the boys’ struggles, broken crates with splintered wood jutting out, a cavern of shadows that hums with their torment.

I vanish in a puff of smoke, the acrid scent stinging my nose like a thousand tiny needles, the air thick with the tang of sulfur and ash, a sharp contrast to the sensual heat of the warehouse. I reappear atop a crumbling-bridge across the city, its steel groaning under my weight, the metal cold and rusted, flaking away in jagged shards that litter the surface, their edges sharp as broken glass. The river below glitters like black glass, rippling with the city’s reflected lights—reds, yellows, and greens from distant traffic signals, their colors bleeding into the water like spilled paint, reeds swaying in the sluggish current, their tips brushing the surface with a soft whisper. The air is heavy with the scent of river muck and diesel, the faint tang of fish and decay wafting up, the wind howling across the bridge, tugging at my skirt and hair, carrying the distant clatter of a train and the low hum of the city’s heartbeat. My wings flare, embers dancing in the air, sizzling as they fall into the river below, their faint glow swallowed by the dark water. “Corruption forevermore,” I murmur, my voice a sultry promise, my hunt beginning anew, a dark desire coiling in my core as I seek my next prey, the night alive with the promise of further debauchery.

[ravensolo77]

The Raven Chronicles

The Corruption of Elise: A Tale of Sin and Transformation

In the shadowed heart of the city, where neon lights cast a feverish glow, I, Raven, embarked on my first corruption since my creation. I slinked into a smoky bar, the air thick with the musk of liquor and the hum of primal desire. My black dress, a shimmering obsidian sheath, clung to my body like a lover’s whisper, its glossy surface catching the flickering neon reds and blues, reflecting them like a dark mirror. The dress hugged my curves, accentuating the swell of my breasts and the dip of my waist, the hem riding high on my thighs, barely concealing the black lace garters that held up my sheer stockings. My stiletto heels, sharp as daggers, struck the floor with the growl of a panther, each step a hypnotic dance, my hips swaying with a rhythm that drew every eye in the room. Shadows seemed to cling to my curves, as if drawn to the darkness within me, my emerald eyes blazing with a sinister intent that burned through the haze. I was on a hunt, seeking a pure soul to twist into a vixen for Queen Evie Hyde’s eternal, shadowy glory, and the bar’s pulsing energy was the perfect hunting ground.

The bar throbbed with a raw, animalistic desire, the air heavy with the scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke, a haze that swirled like a lover’s breath. Patrons, their faces flushed with lust and liquor, cast hungry glances my way, but none sated the gnawing hunger in my soul. Then, I spotted her—Elise, 22 years old, a vision of angelic beauty glowing softly amidst the debauchery. She stood out like a beacon of light in the darkness, her innocence a stark contrast to the bar’s primal energy. Her pastel dress, a delicate blush of pink chiffon, flowed around her lithe frame, the lace sleeves whispering her untainted charm. The dress was modest yet alluring, the soft fabric draping over her small, perky breasts and flaring out at her hips, ending just above her knees. Her blonde hair shimmered like spun gold, falling in gentle waves past her shoulders, framing a face of purity—doe-like blue eyes sparkling with kindness, pale skin glowing with an ethereal radiance. She moved timidly, her slender frame unassuming, her voice a trembling whisper of naivety as she spoke to her friends, her heart a garden of light dreaming of travel and helping others. She was my first prey, a perfect canvas for my dark art, and I glided over, my jasmine-and-sin scent enveloping her like a velvet shroud, my predatory smile sharp and hungry.

“I’m Raven,” I purred, my voice a silken noose dripping with danger, each word laced with a seductive menace that made the air around us thicken. I leaned in, my black dress shimmering under the neon glow, the deep neckline revealing the curve of my cleavage, my emerald eyes locking onto hers. “Your name, sweet thing?” Elise blushed, her cheeks blooming a soft pink, stammering, “Elise,” her voice pure as morning dew, a sound so innocent it sent a thrill through me. Her pastel dress trembled slightly as she shifted, the lace sleeves catching the light, her blonde hair glowing like a halo. Her innocence radiated, a beacon I longed to extinguish, and I savored the challenge of unraveling her with my wicked touch.

“You don’t belong here,” I teased, leaning closer, my breath a scorching whisper against her ear, the heat of my words making her shiver. My black dress pressed against her side, the contrast of my darkness against her light almost poetic. “I-I come with friends,” she murmured, her blue eyes wide as a fawn’s, the fear in them fueling my desire. The bar’s swirling, smoky haze seemed to tighten around us, the neon reds and blues flickering like a heartbeat, and I felt the first spark of my corruption ignite like a flame within me.

I slid a martini her way, my fingers brushing hers, a jolt of dark magic sparking at the touch, a crackling energy that made her gasp. My nails, painted a deep crimson, grazed her pale skin, and I felt my power hum, a serpent coiling to twist her hopes. “What do you dream of, Elise?” I asked, my voice a velvet caress, thick with promise, as I leaned back, my black dress catching the light, the obsidian fabric shimmering like liquid night. It was my first time wielding this force, and it crackled, hungry to bind her soul. She sipped the martini, her lips trembling on the glass, the delicate pink of her mouth contrasting with the clear liquid. “I want to travel, help people,” she said, earnest, her blue eyes shimmering with hope, a purity that made my smirk widen. Her pastel dress seemed to glow with her innocence, a flame I was determined to douse, turning her dreams into a craving for my dark will.

“I want to feel free,” she breathed, her voice fragile as glass, her blue eyes wide with longing. I leaned closer, my lips brushing her ear, the heat of my breath making her tremble. “Freedom’s delicious,” I murmured, my spell a golden chain on her dreams, my first conquest taking root as her innocence began to fracture in the smoky air. “You’re so… different,” Elise said, her voice quivering, drawn into my orbit as I traced her arm, my crimson nails leaving faint marks on her pale skin, her body prickling under my touch. “Different’s fun, isn’t it?” I cooed, my black dress shimmering as I moved, the shadows clinging to my curves like a second skin. My first corruption bloomed, her fascination a flame I’d fan into obsession.

I whispered in her ear, “Imagine a world where you’re mine,” my voice a siren’s call, dripping with seductive promise. Elise’s breath hitched, her blue eyes glazing with desire, the first corruption tightening its grip as her innocent heart pounded, seeds of sin taking root in her soul. With a sultry chuckle, I vanished in a swirling puff of obsidian smoke, leaving Elise dazed, my spell a creeping vine in her mind. My first corruption took hold—she’d dream of me, her body aching, her soul bending to the wicked path I’d carved.

Back at her modest apartment, Elise slipped into bed, her pastel blue nightgown clinging to her slender frame, the soft fabric outlining her small breasts and the gentle curve of her hips. Her blonde hair spilled over the pillow like a golden waterfall, and as she drifted into sleep, my magic, a searing brand in her veins, took hold. She dreamed she was Ember, her fingers teasing her slick heat, her body arching with need as she craved my dark touch. In her dream, she saw herself shifting, her blonde hair starting to smolder, strands turning a fiery red at the tips, her innocent heart racing as a spark of my corruption ignited within, her body tingling as she imagined my emerald eyes consuming her.

She woke, desperate, her breath ragged, finding my note on her bedside table—elegant script glowing like embers, luring her to a loft above a decrepit church. My first corruption pulled her to me, her pulse a frantic drumbeat as she stepped into my trap, ready to be my queen’s disciple. Elise arrived, her blonde hair still pure, her pastel dress trembling in the church’s shadows, the crumbling stones sneering at her fading virtue. I stood waiting, now clad in black lace, a sheer gown that revealed more than it concealed, the lace tracing patterns over my breasts and dipping low to expose my navel, the fabric clinging to my thighs. My lips claimed hers in a kiss of molten fire, my corruption surging through her, the heat of my mouth igniting a fire in her core.

Her dress fell like wilted petals, pooling at her feet, leaving her pale skin quivering under my touch. I teased her sensitive spots, my fingers stroking the soft curve of her breasts, circling her hardening nipples, then trailing down to the apex of her thighs. Her moans were a haunting melody, echoing in the loft’s gloom, her body yielding to the dark pleasure I commanded. I tasted her, my tongue a fiery dance against her slick folds, driving her to a shattering climax, her cries echoing like a siren’s wail as her innocence crumbled. My first corruption was a triumph, her purity melting under the relentless hunger of my sinful will, the shadows watching our union with silent approval.

I whispered dark vows, my emerald eyes blazing like cursed gems, as she returned my passion, her soul twisting, every pure thought consumed by our desire. My corruption began to reshape her, her body and mind bending to my queen’s eternal design. Her transformation started—her blonde hair ignited into fiery red, strands glowing like molten lava, cascading past her shoulders in a blazing crown. Her blue eyes flickered, turning amber, a predatory glint emerging as her innocent glow faded into a smoldering heat. A phoenix tattoo clawed onto her left arm, its wings unfurling in inky black and fiery orange, stretching from shoulder to elbow, feathers shimmering with infernal light. Her skin took on a fiery sheen, my first corruption etching her new identity.

Her body shifted—curves sharpening, hips and bust swelling with allure, her waist cinching as a blood-red leather corset formed, gleaming like fresh blood, lacing tight to accentuate her newly voluptuous figure. Her long legs, once modest, now stretched endlessly, encased in glistening black leather pants that hugged every inch, ending in crimson stilettos that clicked with menace. Her 5’5” frame radiated danger, her red hair a blazing crown, amber eyes burning with hunger, the corset creaking with each breath, her leather-clad legs a testament to her rebirth. She was Ember now, my fiery seductress, reborn for Evie Hyde’s dark reign.

My sinister smile cut like a dagger as Ember knelt before me, her red lips kissing my thighs, the black lace of my gown brushing against her face as she pledged herself to me. My first corruption was a masterpiece, her submission absolute, her soul claimed for my queen, a testament to my power as Raven, Evie Hyde’s dark servant. Ember’s amber eyes blazed, her red corset and leather a second skin, her phoenix tattoo glowing with infernal light. I reveled in her surrender, my first corruption a flawless victory—she was no longer Elise, but my disciple of sin, crafted for Evie Hyde’s eternal glory.

In the loft’s shadows, I entwined with Ember, our passion a hymn to corruption, the church’s shattered stained glass reflecting my queen’s dominion. Her red corset pressed against my black lace, our bodies a tangle of fire and shadow, her fiery devotion sealing her as mine, a jewel for Evie Hyde’s throne. I savored her surrender, her fiery spirit worshipping me, her soul reshaped, her loyalty a blazing beacon of my power in my queen’s eternal, dark reign.

I took Ember’s hand, her red corset gleaming like fresh blood, changing to black mesh, like mine. We strode into the shadows, ready to present her to Queen of corruption Evie Hyde. My first true corruption was complete, her fiery spirit a perfect offering, bound for our queen’s eternal, wicked embrace. We vanished in a swirling puff of crimson smoke, Ember and I, her red hair a blazing inferno, our union a fiery vow of more souls to claim for her.

[ravensolo77]

The Birth of Raven.

Hello, followers. Some of you may have noticed that I have changed the name of my story site to Raven's Roost. Well, there's a reason for that. For I am no longer the person that I was. I am now Lady Raven, Corrupter of the Pure and Innocent.

But how did a man become a voluptuous vixen like this? Well, I'll tell you the story of my origin. Originally, my name was Richard Bolden. I was forty-nine years old, from a small town in Ohio.

I am trapped in the suffocating routine of our Ohio split-level, where the air clings to the cloying scent of Sarah’s lavender candles and the bitter tang of my overbrewed coffee, burnt to a crisp in a chipped ceramic pot. Our home is a 1970s relic, its beige walls peeling at the edges, the living room a cluttered mess with a sagging couch upholstered in faded plaid, a chipped coffee table strewn with TV guides, and a flickering television perpetually tuned to laugh-tracked sitcom reruns. Our marriage is a dull cycle—dinner at six, sitcoms by eight, a bed devoid of passion, the mattress creaking under the weight of our indifference, the sheets a crumpled mess of unspoken resentments. By day, I’m an accountant, drowning in ink-stained spreadsheets, my fingers smudged black, my eyes bleary behind scratched glasses, my faded grey suit hanging loose on my thinning frame, the tie a noose around my neck. But at night, my laptop becomes a portal, its blue glow casting shadows across my tired face as I feed a secret fetish: good girls gone gloriously bad, a thrill that has haunted me since youth, a fire I nurture in the shadows of my mundane existence.

As a youth, I hid in my cramped childhood bedroom, the walls plastered with posters of rock bands, the air thick with the scent of dust and old paper. I’d stash comics under my bed, their pages vibrant with superheroines turning vampiric, their capes swapped for tight corsets of crimson satin, the fabric gleaming under the dim glow of a desk lamp, their eyes glinting with malice as they bared their fangs. Electra Woman and Dyna Girl reruns on a grainy TV, its antenna bent, sparked dreams of leather-clad corruption, their spandex suits replaced by glossy black vinyl that hugged their curves, their wholesome smiles twisting into seductive sneers that sent shivers down my spine. I’d sit on my creaky bed, the springs groaning, my heart racing as I imagined their transformation, the thrill of corruption seeping into my bones. That thrill, born in those stolen moments, still sets my pulse racing in secret, a fire I stoke in the shadows of my adult life, a forbidden desire that refuses to die.

December 2018, the chill of winter seeping through the drafty windows of our split-level, and Sarah, 48, was asleep upstairs, her blonde hair tied back in a loose bun, her flannel pajamas a faded shade of pink. I sat in our cluttered study, the air stale with the scent of old paper, ink, and the faint musk of forgotten books lining the sagging shelves. My laptop hummed, its screen the only light in the darkened room, casting a blue glow across my tired face. I stumbled upon eviehyde.blogspot.com, and Evie’s Emporium unfolded before me like a dark shrine, its homepage dominated by a blonde in a black lace bra, thong, and garter belt, her curves framed by silk, her skin glowing under the neon sign’s eerie light, her eyes promising ruin with a single, smoldering glance. I clicked The New Business Model, and Evie’s words hit me like a shot of whiskey—sharp, intoxicating, divine, each sentence a velvet caress that wrapped around my soul, pulling me into her world of corruption and desire.

Louisa reclaims Hyde Enterprise from her corrupt Aunt Melissa, who, transformed by an evil Elixir, turned the retail giant into a hub of unethical ventures, tripling its wealth. With her husband Max, Louisa exposes Melissa’s crimes, exiling her. Without Melissa’s ruthless leadership, the company falters. Visiting Melissa, now reverted to her kind self, Louisa learns of the Elixir’s dark origins. At headquarters, an accidental spill transforms Louisa into a seductive, ruthless vixen. Embracing her new persona, she plans to rebuild the empire through immoral means, surpassing Melissa’s wicked legacy.

Louisa’s tale consumed me, my body reacting as I sat in the cool study, the laptop humming, its blue glow casting shadows across my flushed face. I wore a worn flannel shirt, the fabric clinging to my sweat-dampened skin, my faded sweatpants loose around my thinning frame. Her wicked smile haunted me, the fantasy of being her—or kneeling before her—overwhelming. I surrendered to the need, my hand moving with urgency, the room’s silence broken by the slick rhythm of my movements. I pictured her in that crimson silk blouse, her curves commanding, her obsidian eyes locking onto mine, and the desire to be part of her world consumed me. My heart pounded, the release crashing over me like a tidal wave, leaving me trembling, the laptop’s glow illuminating my flushed face, my breath ragged as I realized the depth of my longing for Evie’s world of corruption.

Evie’s Emporium became my drug, each story a sensory orgy that consumed me. I’d sit in the study, the leather chair sticking to my thighs, the air thick with the scent of my sweat and the faint musk of old books. Stories of women in creaking leather, their voices sultry, their bodies sculpted into weapons of desire, filled my nights—librarians shedding dowdy cardigans for black vinyl skirts, their buns unraveled into silken cascades, their glasses swapped for whips that gleamed in candlelight. I commented on every post, my fingers trembling as I typed praise for Evie’s genius, my heart racing with each word. Shockingly, she replied—“Thank you, devoted reader”—her words a spark that set my soul ablaze, each response binding me tighter to her dark altar, her influence a chain I willingly wore, my devotion growing with every story I devoured.

I roamed other sites, my laptop a gateway to forbidden worlds. Mara Mischief’s diaries shifted man to woman, woman to man, each transformation a delicious surprise, the pages dripping with ink and desire. Rylem World’s fishnet-clad students danced in neon-lit clubs, their plaid skirts replaced by stockings that shimmered under strobe lights. Aimee Bee’s smoky whispers curled around my mind like tendrils, her words a hypnotic spell. RubberLoved’s latex gleamed in dim light, the squeak of vinyl a siren’s call. Naughty Erica’s(who later became Bitchy Erica) tales of raw intensity burned with passion, leaving me breathless. But Evie’s prose cut deepest, a blade in my soul, her stories of corruption a mirror to my darkest desires, each word a step closer to the abyss I longed to embrace.

Evie’s Elixir Stories unveiled a potion that haunted my dreams: one sip could transform a man into a cruel, seductive woman, a creature of Evie’s dark design. I burned to shed my rough hands, the calluses of years spent gripping pens, my stubbled jaw that scratched against my collar, and join Evie’s village, a devotee gazing at her divine throne, never daring to dream of her crown. The idea was a fever in my blood, a constant ache that pulsed with every heartbeat, my nights filled with visions of myself reborn, my body reshaped, my soul claimed by Evie’s dark magic, a servant to her will, a vessel for her corruption, ready to walk the path she laid before me.

One night, a package arrived, its black tissue crinkling under my trembling fingers as I tore it open on the porch, the autumn air cool against my skin. Inside, a pink vial shimmered like rose quartz, its surface catching the dim glow of the porch light, its scent a heady mix of strawberry, jasmine, and charred roses, intoxicating and forbidden. The note, in elegant script, read, “Evie’s Gift. Six hours only,” the words a promise that set my heart racing. I wore a faded jacket, its denim worn at the elbows, and jeans that hung loose on my frame, my greying hair tousled by the wind. I drank, the sweet-tart liquid warm on my lips, a fire spreading through my veins, and my world erupted in a molten blaze, my body trembling as the transformation began.

My body burned, a searing heat that softened my bones, my skin turning silk-smooth as I stumbled to the bedroom mirror, the hardwood floor cold under my bare feet. My short brown hair cascaded into chestnut waves, shimmering like caramel under the lamplight, reaching past my shoulders in a silken curtain. My brown eyes widened, sparkling with a newfound innocence, my jaw melting into a delicate curve, my lips plumping into a soft, inviting pout that glistened in the light. My masculine form faded, my broad shoulders narrowing, my chest swelling into soft, rounded shapes, my waist tapering into a gentle hourglass, hips flaring with a feminine grace. Between my legs, my former self vanished, replaced by a warm, slick sensation of femininity. Richard vanished. For six hours, I was Rachel, a sensual revelation reborn at 22 my new form a canvas of possibility, glowing with the promise of Evie’s magic.

Naked, I stood before the mirror in Sarah’s bedroom, the moonlight streaming through the window, casting a silver glow across my skin, a creamy canvas smooth and unblemished, like polished ivory kissed by starlight. My chestnut hair framed my face, its waves catching the light, the ends brushing my collarbone in a silken cascade, the strands soft as a lover’s whisper. My new curves were firm yet soft, the swell of my chest rising and falling with each breath, my nipples a delicate pink against the pale expanse, sensitive to the cool air. My waist was a delicate taper, leading to hips that flared naturally, their gentle curve flowing into long, toned legs that shimmered with a faint sheen, my thighs smooth and inviting. My fingers, now slender and graceful, traced the contours of my body, marveling at its elegance, the warmth of my skin radiating under my touch, sending shivers of delight through me. On the cool cotton sheets of the bed, I explored myself, the sensations electric, my touch igniting waves of pleasure, sounds loud in the quiet room, cumming with a cry, the air thick with the musk of my own arousal, trembling in ecstasy’s supernova glow, my body a temple of newfound desire.

I stole Sarah’s sundresses from her closet, their floral fabric clinging to my curves like a second skin, the soft cotton a pastel bouquet of pinks and blues, the hem teasing my thighs as I twirled in the sunlight streaming through the living room window, the fabric brushing against my skin like a lover’s caress, my new body craving touch. My chestnut hair danced in the breeze, its waves catching the light, my hazel eyes sparkling with a mix of innocence and curiosity. Six hours wasn’t enough to sate my hunger, the elixir’s limit a cruel tease. I found Evie’s Emporium in a dimly lit alley, its neon sign flickering, the air inside thick with the scent of sandalwood and myrrh, a heady mix that wrapped around me like a spell. The shop’s shelves were lined with glowing vials, their colors a kaleidoscope of temptation, leather-bound books creaking as they whispered secrets. The obsidian-eyed woman, her face ageless , her black velvet cloak shimmering with an ethereal sheen, handed me more pink vials, her silence a quiet encouragement, each visit feeding my addiction to Rachel, my new self a vessel for Evie’s dark magic.

As Rachel, I stood in a downtown bar, the air thick with cigar smoke and bourbon, my floral sundress a soft contrast to the gritty surroundings, its pastel fabric clinging to my curves, the hem brushing my thighs, my chestnut hair cascading in waves, catching the neon lights in shimmering strands. I seduced CEO Victor, a 35-year-old in a tailored navy suit, his arrogance a challenge against my innocent nature. In his penthouse, the city skyline glittered below through floor-to-ceiling windows, the cold glass table biting my skin as he took me, my body trembling with a mix of fear and exhilaration. I whispered promises, my nails—painted a soft pink—raking his chest through his crisp white shirt, the scent of his cologne sharp and masculine, until he signed over a fortune, his signature a scrawl of surrender, leaving me fulfilled, my innocence shattered. I was no longer soft, but hungry for more, the taste of power intoxicating, a glimpse of the darkness Evie promised.

Victor’s money bought me a downtown loft, its sleek black furniture a stark contrast to the beige prison I’d left behind, the neon art on the walls casting a vibrant glow—electric pinks and blues that danced across the polished concrete floors. I stood in the center, my floral sundress replaced by a fitted black skirt and silk blouse, the fabric a deep emerald that matched my evolving desires, my chestnut hair tied back in a loose ponytail, strands escaping to frame my face. I left a note as Richard on the chipped coffee table in our old home: “Sorry, Sarah, it’s not working,” the words scrawled in haste, my handwriting shaky with the weight of my decision. I skipped work, lived fully as Rachel, craving Evie’s bitches—ruthless, seductive women who wielded power like a blade. I yearned to be a devotee in her village, worshipping her throne, lost in her dark muses, my new life a canvas for Evie’s corruption, each day a step closer to the goddess I longed to become.

I drank the pink elixir again, its sweet-tart taste a familiar fire, and returned to Evie’s Emporium, the alley outside slick with rain, the neon sign flickering like a beacon of temptation. Inside, the air was thick with sandalwood and myrrh, the shelves a labyrinth of glowing vials and leather-bound books that whispered secrets as I passed. A silver necklace—“Bitch”—rested on a velvet display, its edges sharp, glinting with a promise of power, beside a pair of black stiletto heels, their leather smooth yet commanding, the heels sharp as daggers, reflecting the dim light in a menacing sheen. I clasped the necklace, its bite a sharp sting against my throat, and stepped into the heels, their height shifting my balance, the click of my steps echoing in the shop. The world roared around me, a dark symphony swelling as my body began to transform, the air crackling with the energy of Evie’s magic, pulling me deeper into her realm.

The necklace then melted into my body. My chestnut hair darkened to glossy black, waves that smelled of midnight and musk, cascading past my waist like a silken veil, each strand shimmering with an inky sheen in the moonlight. My hazel eyes burned emerald, sharp as shattered glass, glowing with a predatory intensity that reflected my new purpose. My curves swelled, my form becoming more pronounced, my waist cinching tighter, hips flaring wider, a perfect hourglass that exuded power and seduction. My lips, once soft and pink, turned blood-red, curling into a wicked smirk that promised ruin. I became Raven no heir to Evie’s goddess throne, just a villager in her shadow, unafraid and fierce. I dressed in black leather—tight pants that hugged my hips, creaking with each step, their glossy surface reflecting the light like liquid obsidian, paired with a fitted jacket, its silver zippers glinting ominously, the leather cool against my skin. My black stiletto heels, polished to a lethal shine, clicked like a predator’s claws, and cigarette smoke curled from my lips in languid spirals, the acrid bite a testament to my newfound darkness.

I strode into a whiskey-soaked bar, the air thick with the tang of liquor and the musk of sweat, my leather creaking with each step, my stiletto heels clicking on the worn linoleum, cigarette smoke trailing behind me like a dark halo. My black leather pants clung to my hips, the jacket’s silver zippers glinting in the neon light, my blood-red lips smirking as I scanned the room. I spotted Sarah, at a corner table, martini in hand, her floral perfume soft and powdery, a fragile shield against the bar’s grit. Her blonde hair was streaked with silver, falling in loose waves, her hazel eyes red-rimmed from tears, fine wrinkles etching her face—crow’s feet, a furrowed brow, her lips chapped, her navy sweater and grey skirt crumpled from days of neglect. She was a devoted wife, but I was Raven, a stranger cloaked in darkness. I purred, “Need an adventure?” my voice a velvet growl, my fingers—nails painted jet-black—grazing her neck, my curves brushing her arm through the leather, melting her resistance, never revealing I was Richard, my former self a ghost she’d never recognize.

I brought Sarah to her house, the bedroom a sanctuary of faded floral wallpaper in pinks and creams, a sage-green headboard showing wear, the air heavy with lavender from a flickering candle on the nightstand. My musk—black orchids and amber—mingled with the scent, a dark undercurrent to the room’s warmth. I guided her, my nails grazing her skin through her navy-blue negligee, the silk soft against her pale frame, her devotion electric as she knelt before me. My curves gleamed in the moonlight streaming through the window, my black leather jacket tossed aside, the tight pants creaking as I moved, stilettos resting on the hardwood floor, their sharp heels glinting. Sarah’s eyes were awestruck, her blonde hair falling in waves, her hazel gaze fixed on me, the air heavy with her submission, a servant to her leather-clad mistress, her loyalty a testament to my growing power under Evie’s influence.

Craving the fire of Naughty Erica’s tales, I sought out Jamal, a 28-year-old with ebony skin, his presence commanding in a gritty club, the air thick with sweat and whiskey, strobe lights casting shadows across his chiseled frame. I wore my black leather ensemble, the pants clinging to my hips, the jacket’s silver zippers glinting, my stiletto heels clicking on the sticky floor, cigarette smoke curling from my lips. In his apartment, he took me hard on a slick leather couch, the material cool against my skin, my curves trembling under his touch. I surrendered twice, my nails—painted jet-black—clawing his back, his heat overwhelming, a raw intensity that left me breathless. I left smirking, my body tingling, cigarette aglow in the dark, the taste of corruption fueling my desire for more. And girls, listen to Bitchy Erica when she says this is the way to go. Oh my God, it is.

Sarah moved into my loft, a sleek space of black furniture and neon art, the walls alive with electric pinks and blues, the polished concrete floors cold underfoot. She became my devoted servant, never knowing I was Richard, her wardrobe shifting to tight skirts and low-cut tops, her blonde hair and hazel eyes a canvas for my corruption. At Evie’s Emporium, the air thick with sandalwood and myrrh, I drank a darker pink vial, its scent of myrrh, blood, and starlight a heady elixir that sealed Raven forever, my transformation complete. On misseviehyde.bsky.social, I commented as Raven, Devotee of Evie, my fingers trembling as I typed, my black leather jacket draped over the chair, the silver pendant at my throat glinting. She replied, “Thank you, it’s nice to know you see the power, the woman you’ve become.” I wrote, “Anytime, my queen,” not expecting it, my heart soaring. That’s why she’s the goddess and princess she is, her influence a divine fire that burns within me.

In Sarah’s bedroom, the moonlight streaming through the window, I stood over her, my black leather ensemble gleaming—tight pants hugging my hips, the glossy leather reflecting the light like liquid obsidian, my jacket’s silver zippers catching the glow, stilettos clicking on the hardwood, my cigarette smoke curling in the air. Sarah, 48, knelt on the bed, her blonde hair streaked with silver, her hazel eyes wide with devotion, her navy-blue negligee soft against her pale skin, the lace-trimmed hem brushing her thighs. I whispered ancient words, a chant taught by Evie’s essence, my voice a velvet growl, my hands tracing runes in the air that glowed with a faint, crimson light. The air crackled, the lavender scent overtaken by a sharp, electric musk as my corruption took hold. Sarah’s wrinkles smoothed, the silver in her hair melting away, replaced by a vibrant, blue Sapphire that cascaded in glossy waves, shimmering in the moonlight. Her red-rimmed hazel eyes deepened, shifting to a glowing red, their intensity a mirror of my own emerald gaze, burning with a new, sultry fire. Her skin tightened, years peeling away, her slender frame filling out with youthful curves, her posture straightening as she regressed to 22, her negligee now clinging to a body reborn—lush, vibrant, and seductive. Her lips plumped into a full, inviting pout, now painted a natural rose, her cheeks glowing with a youthful flush. Sarah, now a sultry vixen, knelt before me, her transformed beauty a testament to my power, her floral perfume replaced by a darker, musky scent that echoed mine—black orchids and amber, a sign of her corruption under my influence.

I stood at the bedroom door, my black leather ensemble a second skin, the tight pants gleaming like liquid obsidian, my jacket’s silver zippers catching the moonlight, stilettos clicking on the hardwood, my cigarette smoke curling in the air like a dark promise. I glanced back at Sarah, kneeling on the bed, her sapphire hair shimmering and red eyes glowing with devotion .Her navy-blue negligee accentuating her youthful allure, her transformed beauty a testament to my dark power. My wings—black as night, their glossy feathers shimmering with an inky sheen, the tips ablaze with fiery, orange-red flames—unfurled in a blaze, crackling softly as they spread wide, the fiery tips casting a warm, eerie glow across the room. Smirking, I soared into the night, my wings beating powerfully, trailing sparks as I flew, my leather-clad figure a silhouette against the moonlit sky, heels dangling, the wind whipping through my glossy black hair. I whispered, “I’m out to corrupt my first for my queen, Evie Hyde,” my emerald eyes glinting with malice. Quoth I, Raven, “Corruption forevermore,” as the moon cast my shadow, a sinister promise of darkness to come, my fiery wings a beacon of my new, goddess-like power, ready to spread Evie’s influence across the world.

Are you going to be my next corruption? Remember, I'm looking for the pure and innocent. Till next time.