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View all →Petite Tan Riding Cock (Fuck You, Orphis)
by AverageNLoaded
Scene ~ When you’re getting some big dick and your tits sucked on, even brats like Riaelyn fall for slut studs like Orphis.
Delicious Like Faerielicious!~
by AverageNLoaded
Scene ~ A cookie, ice cream, honey, whipped cream and fudge… Sounds like Faerfrae’s making Orphis a dessert bombshell!
Competiton is in the Heir
by PulpPistil
A house needs an heir and will not leave it to bloodline talk. Succession is run as a contest: intake first, then scored trials, with a public voice keeping the tally while the rooms stay polite. The tests use sex and violence as the evidence. Bodies are measured, compared, and sent into field rules. Advantage moves. People who are not in the running get used as part of the protocol. The feed calls it selection. Someone is supposed to take the chair. The house already has plans for everything that does not. Produced with AI tools.
The Case in Red
by PulpPistil
The Lower Decks never really sleep. They just get quieter when something expensive lands. Umbriel Vega steps out of the first hatch like the ferrocrete already belongs to her: living void-metal at her throat, black ichor moving over dark skin, tentacles tasting the air. Lortha and Entha come with her. They are not here to blend in for long. The second shuttle opens on a cleaner lie—another team, another reason to want the same object, the same climb, the same city that still thinks it is only a city. Between the landing pad and the upper stacks: yard guards, street crews, broadcast heat, and rooms where bodies are the product and the cover. Public sex and public killing share the stairwells. The case moves slow. The people carrying weapons toward it do not. The Virago Games are on. Produced using AI tools.
The White Herd
by PulpPistil
Kai'T is hunting alone in the eastern trees when he sees her: pale hide, antlers, a body that is not only animal. He kills at distance. Up close the mistake is harder to hold. The meat goes back to camp. Four hunters eat. Strength comes in. Heat comes in. What they do to each other that night is better than it has any right to be, and in the morning the eastern water is still full of white shapes that do not run the way game should run. The tribe has always treated strange arrivals as meat. This arrival looks back. The kills get easier. The need gets louder. Nobody at the fire is asking the right question until it is already too late to want the answer. Produced using AI tools.
Ghost Signal
by PulpPistil
Tes is already underground when the signal wakes up. Six hours. A dead operator’s last map. The kind of score people kill for, according to the voice in her ear that never shows a face. The trunels under the data blocks are narrow, hot, and full of gas that does not care who fires first. Bodies from an earlier fight are still cooling on the way in. Gear is lying where it dropped. Other crews are already moving—city muscle, a loud little cell with a cause, and someone who has a personal reason to be on this channel. Tes came for the cache. Getting to it is not the same problem as leaving with it. The clock does not stop because the tunnels get crowded. Produced using AI tools.