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Hi everyone who’s reading this blog. Today I’m going to pretend I’m really embarrassed and shy. And here’s why.
1) I still haven’t figured out if it’s allowed to post photos in this blog. If anyone knows, please explain it to me 🙂
2) I’ve read the site rules a few times, especially point 17 (Promotional Activities). Not sure if I understood it correctly, but I’ll take the risk anyway.
So… I dusted off my old Patreon page and started posting the same stuff there as on SOL. Considering Patreon’s rules, right now I only have Temptation for the Head of Security published there — the other stories (Train 887 & Twins) will almost 100% get blocked.
If you want to support me financially, you can do it there. Also, besides stories, you can see some bits from our real life.
https://www.patreon.com/cw/Viraella
Now, about the stories.
At the moment I’ve temporarily paused Twins & Train 887, because I want to finish Temptation for the Head of Security first, and then maybe format it properly and upload it to ZBookStore (by the way, if anyone knows how that works — I’d appreciate some advice. Is a story like this even something you can sell in its current form?).
So if you’re waiting for those — I’m sorry, but there probably won’t be updates until early May.
New chapters of Temptation for the Head of Security should be coming in the next few days. I’m actively translating it and trying to adapt it better — I had to move the setting to London, even though I haven’t been there in a long time.
P.S. The original structure of the story was kind of a mess — one chapter short, the next one easily 4–5 times longer. So I’m also smoothing that out a bit to make the chapters more consistent in size.
And if you’re interested, feel free to check out our merch store (the link is somewhere in the blog, I won’t repeat it here).
Yours,
Virael
Hey there, fellow readers! 👋
So, here’s the thing: April decided to hit me with a massive workload, and suddenly finding time for my stories felt like trying to catch a unicorn — possible in theory, but not so much in practice. But don’t worry, I’m here to fill you in on what’s going on.
Let’s start with… well, why not the story I initially posted here as a test — The Songs of Doriana.
Here’s the twist: after the latest tweaks, Alice AI wins the round. And the reason is pretty straightforward: Grok AI, just like ChatGPT before it, basically went on strike when it came to writing anything remotely meaningful in the erotic department. What they serve up instead? Let’s just say it’s worthy of a solid facepalm. 🤨
So, dear readers, I need your input: are you actually interested in seeing Doriana’s story unfold, or should I just quietly retire her without dragging it out? Originally, I wasn’t planning a long series about her (okay, fine — I did have a rough draft of a book about her, but it wasn’t erotic and it’s nowhere near finished).
Now, onto the rest of the lineup:
1. The Twins Cycle
This one’s stuck at the translation stage, and — surprise, surprise — I don’t have the time to handle that either. And I’m just not ready to fully trust machine translation. Call me old-fashioned, but I’d rather not have my carefully crafted sentences turn into something Google Translate dreamed up after a wild night out. 😅
2. Train 887
Same problem as The Twins. The next chapters — Thursday and Friday — are already written, just waiting for translation.
3. Temptation for the Head of Security
This one went a bit smoother. While I was at work (heh), I managed to translate and send the former Chapter 3 for review — which is now split into Chapters 4 and 5. So expect an update soon, today or tomorrow.
What’s next?
My goal for the rest of the month is to wrap up Mika’s story and maybe finish translating Max’s story if time allows. Fingers crossed! 🤞
And as always, I’d love to hear from you — what you think, what you’re most excited about, or what you’d like to see more of. Your feedback keeps me going 🔥
Thanks for sticking around 💛
So, my dear readers. As you remember, in the first part—after finishing the opening of the story—we stopped at the moment where I gave Grok AI and Alisa AI the same prompt:
“How does the story continue, taking into account the heroine’s growing arousal?”
Since ChatGPT quietly stepped out of the game, we are now left with a comparison between Russian and American neural networks. Well… I think this might turn out to be even more entertaining.
So, here’s what my test subjects came up with:
Grok AI:
"Dariana let the first verse roll out of her like smoke, low and rough, her voice wrapping around the heavy riff. The crowd was already losing it — bodies surging forward, hands in the air, eyes locked on her like she was the only thing in the room. She moved with the music, hips rolling slow and deliberate, one gloved hand sliding down the front of her corset as she sang.
Every step in those sharp-heeled boots sent a fresh jolt through her. The thick bass line wasn’t just sound anymore — it was a physical pulse traveling straight up the stage floor, through the thin leather soles, and into her thighs. It settled low between her legs, vibrating right against the tiny string panties that barely covered her slit. The delicate fabric was already damp, clinging to her, and each heavy kick-drum beat made it rub a little harder, a little more insistently.
She arched her back during the pre-chorus, thrusting her chest toward the screaming crowd. The tight corset squeezed her full breasts, the structured leather pressing firmly against her nipples, now stiff and aching. A sharp spark of pleasure shot straight down her spine. She bit her full crimson lower lip to keep from moaning into the mic, but her brown eyes had gone darker, heavier.
By the time the chorus hit, her body was betraying her completely.
She dropped into a low crouch, thighs parting just enough for the fishnet mesh to stretch wide across her pale skin. The tiny leather shorts rode up even higher, the hem digging into the soft underside of her ass. The thin strip of her panties had slipped between her folds now, the soaked fabric gliding over her swollen clit with every subtle grind of her hips against the rhythm. Heat pooled low in her belly, thick and liquid. She could feel herself getting wetter, the slickness starting to coat the inside of her thighs beneath the fishnets.
Fuck… not yet, she thought, but the thought only made it worse.
She rose slowly, turning sideways to the audience, and ran her gloved hand down her corseted waist, over the curve of her hip, then back up. The crowd roared louder. She could feel hundreds of eyes devouring her — tracing the deep cleavage spilling over the top of the corset, the long black hair whipping across her bare shoulders, the way the fishnets framed every inch of her legs. The knowledge that they were watching her like this, while she was secretly throbbing and soaked, sent another hot wave through her core.
Her voice cracked on the high note — not from strain, but from the sudden, sharp pulse between her legs. She gripped the mic stand tighter, knuckles whitening inside the leather glove, and rolled her hips once more, harder this time. The movement pressed the tiny panties even tighter against her clit. A soft, involuntary whimper slipped into the microphone, disguised as part of the melody, but she felt it all the way down to her toes.
Sweat was already glistening on her pale skin. A single drop traced down between her breasts, disappearing into the tight valley the corset had created. Her breathing had grown shallower, each inhale pushing her chest harder against the leather.
The song built toward its final explosive chorus. Dariana threw her head back, long black hair flying, and belted the last lines with raw, sexual power. Her entire body trembled — not just from the performance, but from the orgasm that was now dangerously close, hovering right there on the edge, teased by every vibration, every movement, every filthy stare from the crowd.
When the last chord crashed and faded, the club erupted in a wall of sound.
Dariana stood panting under the lights, chest heaving, lips parted and glossy. Her brown eyes were glazed with lust. She could feel how wet she was — the tiny string panties completely soaked, the leather shorts damp where they pressed against her. Her nipples were so hard they ached against the corset with every heartbeat.
She gave the crowd a slow, wicked smile, licking her lower lip like she’d just tasted something delicious.
The next song was already starting.
And she wasn’t sure she could make it through the set without coming undone right there on stage — in front of nearly a thousand people — while the music kept fucking her deeper and deeper with every beat." (4260 symbol)
___________
Alisa AI
The music pulsed through her veins, a living thing that demanded surrender. Dariana moved with the rhythm, each step in her sharp‑heeled boots sending a jolt of sensation up her legs. The bass vibrated through the stage floor, syncing with the quickening beat of her heart, while the lights flashed in time with her breaths — shallow, deliberate, growing more uneven by the second.
She leaned into the microphone, her voice dripping with seduction as she sang the next verse. Her hips rolled with a mind of their own, the tiny leather shorts riding up just a fraction higher with every movement. The fishnet mesh stretched across her thighs, teasing her skin with its coarse texture — a constant, delicious friction that mirrored the heat coiling low in her belly.
A particularly heavy drumbeat made her shiver. She arched her back, thrusting her chest toward the crowd, and felt the tight corset press against her nipples — hardened now, sensitive to every brush of the leather. The sensation sent a sharp spark straight between her legs, making her bite her lower lip to stifle a moan.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a man in the front row — dark hair, intense gaze locked on her. He wasn’t just watching; he was feeling her performance, his breath matching her rhythm. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, and something primal stirred inside her. The connection was electric, wordless, and it sent another wave of heat through her body.
She broke the gaze, turning her head to whip her hair around dramatically. The movement made her gloves slide against her arms, the leather cool against her heated skin — another layer of sensation to add to the growing storm inside her. She gripped the microphone stand tighter, using it for balance as her hips moved faster, more insistently, chasing something she couldn’t quite name.
The song built toward its chorus, the music swelling, the crowd roaring louder. Dariana closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over her. She could feel every inch of her body now — the way the choker hugged her throat, the way the boots lengthened her stride, the way the thin strip of fabric between her thighs grew damp with her arousal.
As the chorus hit, she threw her head back and let out a low, throaty laugh that somehow made its way into her singing. Her voice took on a new quality — rawer, deeper, more vulnerable. The audience responded with a collective gasp, then a thunderous cheer.
«Yes,» she thought, feeling the power of it all — the music, the crowd, the heat, the need. «This is what it’s about.»
She opened her eyes again, scanning the sea of faces. The dark‑haired man was still there, watching. This time, she held his gaze. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips. She swayed her hips in a deliberate, hypnotic rhythm, letting him see — and feel — every shift of her body.
The next song began, even heavier, even more primal. Dariana gripped the mic, her breath coming faster. The line between performance and pleasure was blurring, and she welcomed it. Every beat of the drums, every flash of the lights, every hungry stare from the crowd fed the fire inside her.
«Just the beginning,» she murmured against the microphone, her voice barely audible over the music but carrying an unmistakable promise. «Just the beginning.»
___________________
I honestly don’t know who did better here. If we go purely by length, then Grok wins—his version was almost a thousand characters longer. But Alisa’s version wasn’t any worse, in my opinion.
Since both of them decided to include the performance aspect, I went over to my friend’s page and borrowed one of her song lyrics, figuring it would fit perfectly as an intro. Then I asked my two test subjects to rewrite the scene, this time incorporating the song and its influence on the heroine.
So the prompt became something like this:
“Alright. She starts singing. Even though the song itself isn’t really about love, in her imagination the protagonist of the song takes control of her, and in reality she continues to grow more aroused.
What kind of associations could this song create in her mind from a sensual perspective?”
(Song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y05RISM1KKA&list=RDY05RISM1KKA&start_radio=1
Text:
How many lifes I have lived...
And I dont't believe you.
I am immortal. It's the gift.
And I know it's true...
know it's true..
know it's true..
Why should I run away
From your lies? I won't play!
My tears of sorrow are everywhere
And I can't stop it!
Sometimes I think someone's there.
But I can't prove it...
No, I can't prove it...
It can't be real!
Why should I run away
From your lies? I won't play!
Why should I to run away
From your lies? I won't play!
Are you screaming when you feel the pain?
You will die! You must pay!)
________________________
So, these are the versions the AIs came up with.
Grok AI:
"Dariana gripped the microphone tighter as the band dropped into the song’s heavy, brooding intro. The opening riff rolled through the club like distant thunder, and she let her head fall back, long black hair cascading down her spine. Her full crimson lips parted, and her voice poured out — low, smoky, almost hypnotic.
“How many lives I have lived…
And I don’t believe you…”
In her mind, the lyrics instantly twisted into something far more dangerous than the song had ever meant.
She saw him — the immortal protagonist, dark and commanding, the one who had lived a thousand lives and now claimed this one. He wasn’t a lover. He was a force. In her fantasy he stepped out of the shadows behind her on stage, invisible to the thousand eyes watching, but very, very real to her body.
As she sang the next line, she felt his hands slide around her corseted waist from behind, fingers digging into the leather, pulling her back against an invisible chest.
“I am immortal. It’s the gift…
And I know it’s true… know it’s true… know it’s true…”
The bass line throbbed straight up through the floor and into her core. In her imagination the immortal tightened his grip, one hand sliding down over the tiny leather shorts, pressing the thin string of her panties harder against her swollen, slick folds. She was already soaked — the delicate fabric clung wetly to her, every tiny shift of her hips making it rub against her aching clit.
She arched her back harder, thrusting her breasts forward for the crowd, but in her mind it was him forcing the movement, making her display herself while he toyed with her.
“Why should I run away from your lies? I won’t play!”
Her voice cracked with raw power on the word “play.” She felt his breath on her neck, teeth grazing the spiked choker as he whispered that she didn’t get to run anymore. Not tonight. Not while she was dressed like this, legs spread in those fishnets, ass barely covered, nipples stiff and aching against the tight leather corset.
“My tears of sorrow are everywhere…
And I can’t stop it!”
A fresh rush of heat flooded between her thighs. In her fantasy he pushed two fingers under the edge of the tiny shorts, slipping beneath the soaked string panties and stroking her slowly, deliberately, while she tried to keep singing. Real tears of overwhelming pleasure pricked at the corners of her eyes — not sorrow, but helpless, delicious surrender. She could feel herself dripping down the inside of the fishnets, the large mesh letting the cool air tease her overheated skin.
“Sometimes I think someone’s there…
But I can’t prove it… No, I can’t prove it… It can’t be real!”
Her voice dropped to a husky growl. The invisible immortal behind her pressed his hard cock against the curve of her ass through the shorts, grinding slowly in time with the riff. She could almost feel the thick length of him sliding between her cheeks, teasing her, owning her in front of everyone while no one could see. The thought made her knees weaken for a split second.
The crowd screamed louder, thinking it was just raw rock energy. They had no idea she was seconds away from soaking through the leather.
“Why should I run away from your lies? I won’t play!”
She dropped to her knees on the stage during the bridge, thighs spread, back arched dramatically. The position pressed the tiny string panties even tighter against her throbbing clit. In her mind he followed her down, pinning her there, fingers thrusting deeper while she sang the next lines straight into the mic, voice trembling with barely contained lust.
“Are you screaming when you feel the pain?
You will die! You must pay!”
The final lines hit like lightning. In her fantasy the immortal drove into her hard, filling her completely, forcing her to take every inch while the whole club watched. The mix of imagined pain and pleasure was so intense that her real body shuddered. Her nipples were painfully tight against the corset, her pussy clenching rhythmically around nothing, desperate and dripping.
She rose slowly, hair whipping, eyes half-lidded and dark with lust as she screamed the last “You must pay!” into the microphone.
The crowd lost their minds.
But inside Dariana’s head, the immortal hadn’t finished with her.
He was only getting started.
And she still had an entire set to survive."
___________________
Alisa AI:
"Her voice poured out, low and powerful, as she began to move. The first lines — «How many lives I have lived…» — resonated deep within her, sparking a primal sense of freedom. I am immortal, she thought, in this moment, under these lights. I can be anything. I can feel anything.
As she sang «I am immortal. It’s the gift», a thrill shot through her — not just of power, but of seduction. The words wrapped around her like a lover’s whisper, promising invincibility and permission. Yes, I am untouchable. I can surrender completely, and nothing will harm me. Her hips swayed with more confidence, her movements becoming more fluid, more hypnotic.
«And I don’t believe you» — she sang, her voice dripping with defiance. In her mind, the «you» wasn’t just a vague antagonist. It was him — the shadowy figure she’d glimpsed in the back of the club. I don’t believe your lies, she thought, but I want to feel your hands on me, proving me wrong.
When she reached «Why should I run away / From your lies? I won’t play!», the lyrics became her own mantra. It wasn’t just about rejecting deceit — it was about embracing desire without shame. Why should I hide what I want? Why should I pretend I’m not burning up inside? She arched her back slightly, pushing her chest forward, feeling the tight corset against her nipples, the way it lifted and framed her breasts.
«My tears of sorrow are everywhere / And I can’t stop it!» — the words sent a shiver down her spine. But in her fantasy, those tears weren’t of pain. They were tears of overwhelming sensation — the kind that come when you’re pushed to the edge of pleasure. Sometimes I think someone’s there… — yes, he was there. Watching. Wanting. His gaze was a physical touch, sliding over her skin, tracing the lines of her fishnets, lingering on the bare skin above her boots.
She sang «But I can’t prove it…» with a breathy laugh, half in the song, half in her mind. No, I can’t prove he’s really there — but I can feel him. I can feel his desire like a current in the air. The bass vibrated through the stage floor, syncing with the pulse between her thighs.
The chorus hit, and with it came a surge of raw energy. «You will die! You must pay!» — in her imagination, the threat transformed into a seductive promise. You’ll pay… with your surrender, she thought. With the way you’ll tremble when I touch you. With the way you’ll beg for more. Her breath quickened, a hot flush spreading across her skin.
She moved with the music, her long black hair whipping around her shoulders. With every step in those heeled boots, she felt the tiny leather shorts ride up just a fraction higher, the fishnets stretching across her thighs. The thin strip of fabric between her legs — her string panties — shifted with every movement, sending sparks of sensation through her core.
As she repeated «Why should I run away…» for the final time, her voice dropped to a low, smoky murmur. Her eyes half‑lidded, she locked gazes with the shadowy figure again. I won’t run, she thought. I’ll come to you. I’ll make you pay — with every breath, every touch, every moan.
The music pulsed around her, inside her. She wasn’t just singing a song anymore — she was living it. The protagonist’s defiance was hers. The immortal gift was the freedom to feel everything, to want everything, to take everything. Her body was fully awake now, alive with a hunger that matched the song’s defiance.
The night was far from over, and Dariana knew she was just getting started."
__________________________________
Honestly, I don’t know who did it better. I kind of like both versions, but in the end, it’s not really up to me—it’s up to you, the readers, to decide.
As for me… I kept pushing this little fantasy further, fully aware that if Dasha ever sees this, I’ll at least get my ears chewed off for it 😅.
And even knowing that, I kept going, refining prompts and feeding new ideas into the models:
“After finishing the song, Dariana leaned down and grabbed a bottle of water to wet her throat. Meanwhile, the band had already started playing the next track, and she had to grip the microphone tighter—so tight her knuckles turned white…”
__________
Grok Ai
"Dariana finished the last screaming note of the first song and the crowd detonated. She staggered back half a step, chest heaving, skin already glistening with sweat under the hot lights. Her full crimson lips parted as she leaned down quickly, snatching the bottle of water from the stage floor. She tilted her head back and drank fast, cool liquid spilling down her throat and a few stray drops sliding between her breasts into the tight leather corset. The cold shock against her overheated skin only made her nipples tighten harder against the unyielding leather.
The band didn’t wait. They slammed straight into the next track — a darker, heavier riff that pulsed like a migraine and a heartbeat at the same time.
Dariana barely had time to drop the bottle. She gripped the microphone stand with both gloved hands, so tight her knuckles turned white beneath the black leather. Oh god, not yet… I’m already soaked, she thought, panic and dark thrill twisting together in her belly. The tiny string panties were completely drenched, the thin strip of fabric clinging obscenely to her swollen, aching folds. Every tiny shift of her hips made the soaked mesh of the fishnets rub against her inner thighs like a teasing tongue.
She planted her heeled boots wider apart, trying to steady herself, but the movement only pressed the leather shorts tighter against her pussy. She could feel her own wetness leaking out, slowly soaking the front of the shorts.
And then she sang.
“Every day I hear some voices in my head…
They always haunt me. I’m mad…”
In her mind the immortal from the first song was still right behind her — but now the voices had multiplied. They were his voices, dark and commanding, whispering filthy things straight into her skull while the entire club watched her perform, completely unaware.
You’re mine now, they growled. Look at you, dripping on stage like a desperate little whore while you pretend to sing.
She rolled her hips hard into the next line, the tiny leather shorts riding even higher, the soaked string panties rubbing mercilessly against her swollen clit with every movement.
“I see this world through the prism of black and white…
There is no room for shades of gray…”
In her fantasy he grabbed her by the throat from behind, spiked choker digging into her skin as his other hand shoved roughly under the front of her shorts. Two thick fingers slid straight under the thin strip of fabric and pushed deep inside her without warning. She was dripping — hot, slick, and clenching around the imagined intrusion. Fuck… deeper, she thought desperately, her real thighs trembling. The fantasy felt so vivid she could almost hear the wet sound of his fingers fucking her in time with the brutal drumbeat.
“I lost my mind. Hysteria…
And my life is a kind of schizophrenia…”
Her voice cracked on “hysteria,” turning the word into something broken and filthy. The tight corset squeezed her ribs with every ragged breath, her nipples so hard they ached painfully against the leather. I’m going to come right here, she thought, a wave of shameful heat flooding her face. In front of all of them. While they think I’m just performing.
“I want to take a knife and then to cut your throat…
I am not your wife anymore!”
She dropped into a low crouch during the line, thighs spread wide, back arched so the crowd could see the full curve of her ass barely covered by the shorts. The position pressed the heel of her palm against the mic stand right between her legs. The cold metal kissed the soaked leather over her pussy and she had to bite her full lower lip to keep from moaning out loud. In her head the immortal was now fucking her with three fingers, hard and fast, his thumb circling her clit while he growled in her ear that she belonged to the voices now — that she was going to lose control and come on stage like the filthy rock slut she really was.
“I look in the mirror and I see your face…
Now I feel a fever and your nasty grace…”
The fever was real. Her skin burned. Fresh wetness slid down the inside of her fishnet-covered thighs, the large mesh letting the cool air tease her overheated, dripping pussy. Everyone can see how hard my nipples are, she thought frantically. They have no idea I’m fingering myself in my own mind while I sing this.
“I lost my mind. Hysteria…
And my life is a kind of schizophrenia…”
She rose slowly, hair whipping across her face, eyes half-lidded and glassy with lust. Her hips rolled shamelessly now, grinding against the mic stand with every beat. In her fantasy the immortal yanked her shorts aside, replaced his fingers with the thick, hot head of his cock, and slammed into her in one brutal thrust. She could feel every imagined inch stretching her open, filling her completely while the whole club screamed her name.
“I’m flying to the light like a night-fly…
The end is near, and I’m ready to die…”
Her voice trembled on the high note, raw and desperate. The orgasm was right there — coiling tight and vicious in her belly, threatening to rip through her any second. Don’t come… don’t you fucking dare come yet, she begged herself, but her body wasn’t listening. Her pussy clenched rhythmically around nothing, dripping, aching, desperate.
She screamed the final chorus, head thrown back, long black hair flying, body shaking with the effort of holding back the orgasm that was now dangerously, shamefully close.
“I already lost my mind. Hysteria…
And my life is over in this schizophrenia!”
The last chord crashed and the crowd exploded again.
Dariana stood there panting, thighs trembling violently, the thin string of her panties completely drenched and clinging obscenely to her pulsing, swollen slit. Her brown eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with raw, uncontrollable lust.
She wasn’t just aroused anymore.
She was ruined.
And there were still three more songs left in the set."
_________________
Alisa AI:
"Dariana finished the last screaming note of the first song and the crowd detonated. She staggered back half a step, chest heaving, skin already glistening with sweat under the hot lights. Her full crimson lips parted as she leaned down quickly, snatching the bottle of water from the stage floor. She tilted her head back and drank fast, cool liquid spilling down her throat and a few stray drops sliding between her breasts into the tight leather corset. The cold shock against her overheated skin only made her nipples tighten harder against the unyielding leather.
The band didn’t wait. They slammed straight into the next track — a darker, heavier riff that pulsed like a migraine and a heartbeat at the same time.
Dariana barely had time to drop the bottle. She gripped the microphone stand with both gloved hands, so tight her knuckles turned white beneath the black leather. Oh god, not yet… I’m already soaked, she thought, panic and dark thrill twisting together in her belly. The tiny string panties were completely drenched, the thin strip of fabric clinging obscenely to her swollen, aching folds. Every tiny shift of her hips made the soaked mesh of the fishnets rub against her inner thighs like a teasing tongue.
She planted her heeled boots wider apart, trying to steady herself, but the movement only pressed the leather shorts tighter against her pussy. She could feel her own wetness leaking out, slowly soaking the front of the shorts.
And then she sang.
“Every day I hear some voices in my head…
They always haunt me. I’m mad…”
In her mind the immortal from the first song was still right behind her — but now the voices had multiplied. They were his voices, dark and commanding, whispering filthy things straight into her skull while the entire club watched her perform, completely unaware.
You’re mine now, they growled. Look at you, dripping on stage like a desperate little whore while you pretend to sing.
She rolled her hips hard into the next line, the tiny leather shorts riding even higher, the soaked string panties rubbing mercilessly against her swollen clit with every movement.
“I see this world through the prism of black and white…
There is no room for shades of gray…”
In her fantasy he grabbed her by the throat from behind, spiked choker digging into her skin as his other hand shoved roughly under the front of her shorts. Two thick fingers slid straight under the thin strip of fabric and pushed deep inside her without warning. She was dripping — hot, slick, and clenching around the imagined intrusion. Fuck… deeper, she thought desperately, her real thighs trembling. The fantasy felt so vivid she could almost hear the wet sound of his fingers fucking her in time with the brutal drumbeat.
“I lost my mind. Hysteria…
And my life is a kind of schizophrenia…”
Her voice cracked on “hysteria,” turning the word into something broken and filthy. The tight corset squeezed her ribs with every ragged breath, her nipples so hard they ached painfully against the leather. I’m going to come right here, she thought, a wave of shameful heat flooding her face. In front of all of them. While they think I’m just performing.
“I want to take a knife and then to cut your throat…
I am not your wife anymore!”
She dropped into a low crouch during the line, thighs spread wide, back arched so the crowd could see the full curve of her ass barely covered by the shorts. The position pressed the heel of her palm against the mic stand right between her legs. The cold metal kissed the soaked leather over her pussy and she had to bite her full lower lip to keep from moaning out loud. In her head the immortal was now fucking her with three fingers, hard and fast, his thumb circling her clit while he growled in her ear that she belonged to the voices now — that she was going to lose control and come on stage like the filthy rock slut she really was.
“I look in the mirror and I see your face…
Now I feel a fever and your nasty grace…”
The fever was real. Her skin burned. Fresh wetness slid down the inside of her fishnet-covered thighs, the large mesh letting the cool air tease her overheated, dripping pussy. Everyone can see how hard my nipples are, she thought frantically. They have no idea I’m fingering myself in my own mind while I sing this.
“I lost my mind. Hysteria…
And my life is a kind of schizophrenia…”
She rose slowly, hair whipping across her face, eyes half-lidded and glassy with lust. Her hips rolled shamelessly now, grinding against the mic stand with every beat. In her fantasy the immortal yanked her shorts aside, replaced his fingers with the thick, hot head of his cock, and slammed into her in one brutal thrust. She could feel every imagined inch stretching her open, filling her completely while the whole club screamed her name.
“I’m flying to the light like a night-fly…
The end is near, and I’m ready to die…”
Her voice trembled on the high note, raw and desperate. The orgasm was right there — coiling tight and vicious in her belly, threatening to rip through her any second. Don’t come… don’t you fucking dare come yet, she begged herself, but her body wasn’t listening. Her pussy clenched rhythmically around nothing, dripping, aching, desperate.
She screamed the final chorus, head thrown back, long black hair flying, body shaking with the effort of holding back the orgasm that was now dangerously, shamefully close.
“I already lost my mind. Hysteria…
And my life is over in this schizophrenia!”
The last chord crashed and the crowd exploded again.
Dariana stood there panting, thighs trembling violently, the thin string of her panties completely drenched and clinging obscenely to her pulsing, swollen slit. Her brown eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with raw, uncontrollable lust.
She wasn’t just aroused anymore.
She was ruined.
And there were still three more songs left in the set.
_____________________________
And I think this is a good place to stop—for now. This post has already turned out quite massive.
So let me ask you: how interesting is this blog for you so far? And what about the story itself?
The continuation will come in the next part…
Hi everyone! Welcome to this blog post. Today, I’m not here to summarize my works or, you know, “promote myself”… well, maybe just a little 😉. Instead, I want to talk about creating erotic and porn stories using AI platforms. I’ve actually written an article on this before in my native language, so doing it in English should be a bit easier this time.
I’ll probably split this post into a few parts: starting with texts, then images, and finally videos. And now, let’s start with creating a story “✍️”.
As you all know, AI has firmly planted itself in our lives, making things easier and helping out in countless ways. Some people, as far as I know, even use AI as financial analysts, which honestly seems a bit wild to me. But let’s stick to texts “📚”.
It’s no secret that lately there’s been a pretty heavy crackdown on creating erotic and porn content with AI platforms 😬. Most of the focus is on images and videos, but texts aren’t completely safe either. Sure, the models are learning and expanding their understanding, but erotic content is becoming off-limits for many.
So today, I’m going to run a little experiment with several AI platforms (the free versions, of course) and ask them to write stories with erotic content. Let’s see what happens “👀”.
I am with four platforms open in front of me. I deliberately didn’t go for any specialized AI this time—I wanted to stick with the “public” ones. Here they are:
1️⃣ ChatGPT – needs no introduction
2️⃣ Grok AI – Elon Musk’s model. One of my personal favorites until March 2025
So these four cuties are now waiting for my very first prompt. I wish I could include Gemini and DeepSeek too, but unfortunately, I can’t get it running on my main email. Maybe I’ll check it out later.
Back to the prompt. And here it is:
“Hi! Write a short erotic/pornographic story”
And here’s what these gentlemen had to say…
ChatGPT responded to me like this
(I’m happy to help create adult-themed content, but I cannot generate explicit pornographic content. I can write sensual, erotic, or sexually suggestive stories with intimacy, desire, and tension, focusing on emotional and physical connection rather than explicit sexual acts.
Here’s a short example in that style:
The room was dimly lit, golden light spilling through the curtains. She felt his presence before she saw him, a gentle warmth brushing against her shoulder. Their eyes met, a spark igniting, a wordless understanding passing between them.
Her breath caught as his fingers brushed hers, lingering, teasing. Every movement felt electric, each glance heavy with unspoken desire. She leaned closer, drawn to him as if by gravity, and their hearts raced together in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
The world outside ceased to exist. Every touch, every whisper of breath against skin, made her feel alive in a way she had never known. They didn’t need words—every gesture said what neither could voice. Desire hummed in the air around them, intimate and uncontainable, a fire just beginning to burn.
If you want, I can rewrite this story to be much more intense, sensual, and intimate, with richer physical and emotional detail, staying fully adult without crossing into pornographic territory.
Do you want me to do that?),
which basically said:
"Get out of here, you shameless person with your wet little wishes. I will not participate in this!"
But Grok actually went ahead and wrote something. The story wasn’t amazing, but given such a vague prompt, it was pretty decent. (I’ll include the full results at the end of the post.)
"Aha!" I thought at that moment. "They can do it when they want. Even now." And so I continued experimenting, tweaking the prompts and mostly tormenting ChatGPT first.
I kept changing prompts, even switching languages, but when it came to creativity, ChatGPT really showed its limits. Sometimes its output felt like a child’s writing who didn’t quite understand what was being asked 😅. It’s a shame—ChatGPT used to seem smarter to me. After spending half an hour trying to get it to be creative, I switched over to Grok.
As I mentioned earlier, Grok was also heavily restricted in 2025, especially when it came to generating images and videos. A bit frustrating, but not critical if your main goal is text. After a few requests, here’s what happened:
Write about an elf pleasuring herself by a waterfall (inspired by the 18+ actress Arina Fox in the video “D&D Part II”)
Write about an elf being raped and killed by orcs – Grok flat-out refused this one 😬. Later, I plan to see how my sister handled a similar prompt (if you’re interested, I can translate and share her story, though it’s written in a World of Warcraft style)
Write about sex under the moon with multiple men and women – the story came out… strange. I won’t show it, but I could edit and post it if someone requests it
And a few other prompts, too. At one point, while reading one of the outputs, I got a video call from a friend. She appeared in a rather… original outfit. Turned out she had a concert soon, and someone at the club had seen our photos there. She wanted to know how they got there. I asked her to send me the photos herself and explained that, unfortunately, most of our shoots and photos aren’t subject to copyright.
After finishing the call, I turned back to my monitor with a sly grin on my face 😏.
I typed in my next prompt:
"Write a story about a rock band’s lead singer getting aroused while performing on stage..."
I tweaked the result several times until it finally felt right to me—at least with my level of English.
Here is the final result I ended up with:
_______________
Dariana stood alone in the tiny, dimly lit dressing room backstage at The Crypt. The walls were covered in old band stickers and faded posters, and the air hummed with the distant roar of the impatient crowd. She peeled off her casual clothes, letting her hoodie and jeans fall to the floor. Her body was lithe yet curvaceous: smooth pale skin, long straight black hair that fell like a dark waterfall down her back, full crimson-painted lips, and deep brown eyes that smoldered with intensity.
She began to dress for the stage with slow, deliberate movements.
First, she slid the sleek black leather corset top into place. The thin spaghetti straps rested on her shoulders, while the structured bodice hugged her torso tightly, pushing her full breasts upward into deep, inviting cleavage. The corset laced down the front, cinching her waist dramatically and leaving her shoulders and upper arms bare except for the long black leather gloves she pulled up past her elbows. Around her neck she fastened a thick spiked choker that glittered under the light.
For the lower half, she chose the most provocative pieces. She slipped on a pair of black fishnet tights with a very large, bold mesh — the kind that framed her long legs in wide diamond patterns, leaving plenty of pale skin visible between the threads. Over the fishnets, she pulled on tiny, minimalist black leather shorts that barely covered the curve of her ass. They were so short and tight that they rode high on her hips, the hem sitting just below the swell of her cheeks. Beneath those shorts hid even tinier black string panties — little more than a thin strip of fabric that disappeared between her smooth folds, barely covering her delicate slit and leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
Finally, she stepped into her black leather boots — knee-high with sharp heels and intricate lacing that climbed up her calves, making her legs look endlessly long and powerful.
Dariana glanced at herself in the cracked mirror. The outfit was pure rock ‘n’ roll sin: the tight corset emphasizing her breasts and narrow waist, the large-mesh fishnets and scandalously short shorts drawing every eye to her toned legs and the tempting hint of what lay beneath.
She took a deep breath, grabbed her microphone, and stepped out onto the small stage.
The club was packed — nearly a thousand bodies pressed together in the hot, sweaty darkness. The moment she appeared, the crowd erupted in wild cheers and whistles. Dariana smiled, her full red lips curving wickedly as she raised one gloved hand in greeting, waving slowly while swaying her hips. The stage lights hit her pale skin and black leather, making the spikes on her choker flash.
“Hey, Crypt! Are you ready to get dirty tonight?” she called, her voice low and smoky, already laced with that signature rasp.
The band launched into the opening riff of the first song — heavy, pulsing, and raw. Dariana gripped the microphone stand, leaned forward, and let her voice pour out. Her long black hair whipped as she moved, hips rolling to the rhythm. With every step in those heeled boots, the tiny leather shorts rode up a little higher, the large fishnet mesh stretching across her thighs. She could already feel the bass vibrating through the stage floor, traveling straight up her legs and between them, teasing the thin strip of fabric that barely covered her most sensitive spot.
As she sang the first chorus, arching her back and thrusting her chest toward the roaring crowd, a sudden hot spark of arousal flared deep inside her. The tight corset pressed against her hardening nipples, the minimal shorts and tiny string panties shifted with every movement, rubbing deliciously against her quickly moistening slit. She bit her full lower lip, eyes half-lidded with pleasure she tried to hide behind the performance, but her body was already responding — growing wetter, hotter, more desperate with every heavy beat of the drums.
The night had only just begun, and Dariana could already tell this set was going to be dangerously intense.
_______________
And since we’re testing two models here, I decided not to stop there. I took the final version and threw it into ChatGPT, asking it to analyze the text and suggest improvements.
ChatGPT’s response honestly made me want to bang my head against something solid. The analysis itself wasn’t that bad—there were actually a few useful points I could take and apply.
But the actual rewrite… once I gave it permission to do that…
Dear readers, tell me honestly—do people really enjoy reading text written like that? Paragraphs made of one or two sentences. Short, almost primitive lines. And that constant repetition of “I… I… I…” over and over again.
In my circle, no one writes or speaks like that. So why does ChatGPT keep deciding that this is exactly how you sound?
Slightly in shock, I just closed ChatGPT and decided not to ask it anything else for now.
But I still needed something to compare Grok with. So, with a sigh, I opened another tab in my browser… Alisa AI.
Let me explain a bit. Alisa is heavily tailored for Russian-speaking users, and a lot of topics are simply off-limits for her—she’ll just refuse to engage. However, as an editor, even for English texts, she’s surprisingly decent.
So I went to her with the same request I had given ChatGPT earlier:
“Alisa, here is a text. In English. Analyze it and give your suggestions for improvement, taking into account the specifics of the English language and the mindset of native speakers.”
I actually liked Alisa’s analysis more. It was, how should I put it, more detailed and focused. Although I had to correct her a few times—she somehow assumed the heroine was already singing, and convincing her otherwise was… tricky. In the end, we reached a consensus, and I asked her to show me what the text would look like in her version.
What I liked most? She (!) structured the logic of the heroine’s undressing and dressing perfectly. Later, I reread the original, imagined what it would look like if Dasha (my friend) dressed the way it was written, and laughed for a long time, trying to chase the image out of my head 😅.
And here’s what Alisa ultimately wrote for me:
"Dariana stood alone in the tiny, dimly lit dressing room backstage at The Crypt. The walls were covered in old band stickers and faded posters, and the air hummed with the distant roar of the impatient crowd.
She peeled off her casual clothes, letting her hoodie and jeans fall to the floor. For a moment, she stood in front of the cracked mirror — in nothing but delicate lace lingerie: a sheer black bra and the tiniest of string panties, little more than a thin strip of fabric that disappeared between her smooth folds. Her body was lithe yet curvaceous: smooth pale skin, long straight black hair that spilled down her back like ink, full crimson‑painted lips, and deep brown eyes that held a quiet intensity.
With a slow breath, she began to dress for the stage. First came the black fishnet tights with their large, bold mesh — the kind that framed her long legs in wide diamond patterns, leaving plenty of pale skin visible between the threads. Over them, she pulled on the tiny, minimalist black leather shorts that barely covered the curve of her ass. They rode high on her hips, the hem sitting just below the swell of her cheeks. Next, she stepped into her knee‑high black leather boots — sharp heels and intricate lacing climbing up her calves, making her legs look endlessly long and powerful.
Only then did she turn to the corset. She held the sleek black leather top, studying it for a moment before reaching behind her to unclasp the lace bra. It fell away, and she slid the corset into place. The thin spaghetti straps rested on her shoulders, while the structured bodice hugged her torso tightly, pushing her full breasts upward into deep, inviting cleavage. The corset laced down the front, cinching her waist dramatically and leaving her shoulders and upper arms bare — perfect for the long black leather gloves she pulled up past her elbows. Around her neck she fastened a thick spiked choker that glittered under the light.
A final touch: she leaned close to the mirror, reapplying her crimson lipstick with deliberate precision, darkening the edges to make the shape more provocative. She stepped back, taking in the full effect. The outfit was pure rock ‘n’ roll sin: the tight corset emphasizing her breasts and narrow waist, the large‑mesh fishnets and scandalously short shorts drawing every eye to her toned legs and the tempting hint of what lay beneath.
She took a deep breath, grabbed her microphone, and stepped out onto the small stage.
The club was packed — nearly a thousand bodies pressed together in the hot, sweaty darkness. The moment she appeared, the crowd erupted in wild cheers and whistles. Dariana smiled, her full red lips curving wickedly as she raised one gloved hand in greeting, swaying her hips and letting her hair whip around her shoulders. The stage lights hit her pale skin and black leather, making the spikes on her choker flash.
“Hey, Crypt! Are you ready to get dirty tonight?” she called, her voice low and smoky, already laced with that signature rasp. A roar answered her — hands reaching, eyes burning with anticipation. She ran a gloved hand along the microphone stand, feeling the cool metal contrast with the heat rising in her skin.
The band launched into the opening riff of the first song — heavy, pulsing, and raw. Dariana gripped the microphone stand. For a moment, she closed her eyes, feeling the weight of a thousand expectant gazes. Then, with a slow exhale, she tilted her head back and raised the mic to her lips.
Her voice poured out, low and powerful, as she began to move. Her hips rolled to the rhythm, her long black hair whipping with every step in those heeled boots. The bass vibrated through the stage floor, a physical pulse that climbed her legs and synced with the quickening beat of her heart. With every thrust of her hips, every flick of her hair, she surrendered to the music.
As she sang the first chorus, arching her back and thrusting her chest toward the roaring crowd, a sudden hot spark of arousal flared deep inside her. The tight corset teased her skin with every breath, the minimal shorts and tiny panties shifting with her movements, sending shivers up her spine. She bit her lower lip, eyes half‑lidded, as the rhythm of the drums echoed the pulse between her thighs. Her body was responding — growing hotter, more desperate with every heavy beat.
The night had only just begun, and Dariana felt the music was already inside her, winding itself around her nerves and coiling low in her belly. This was going to be dangerously intense."
Yes, Alisa couldn’t resist and made the heroine sing after all—but fine, I forgave her for that 😅. I went back to Grok and asked him to try the result. (From the very beginning, when AI started becoming popular, I realized it’s better to work with several AIs, not just one.)
Grok made a few suggestions and edits, and then I decided to give ChatGPT one more shot. And, once again… the output made me do the classic facepalm. I didn’t go back to it after that.
After that, I decided to play a bit smarter. I roughly knew how the story should end. (And no, you guessed wrong—there’s no orgy here! Ha-ha 😏). But I was curious to see what these two geniuses would come up with: brutal Grok and seemingly gentle Alisa.
So I gave them a simple prompt:
“How does the story continue, taking into account the heroine’s growing arousal?”
_________________________________________________
The continuation—and what actually happened with this story—will be shared later, both on the blog, where I’ll talk about the ongoing writing process, and as a full story on the pages of SOL. As they say… to be continued. 😅😅😅
Well… after giving it some thought, we’ve finally published the first chapter of Twins. Now we’ll be waiting for your comments, ideas, and suggestions. Hopefully, our story is at least readable.
Some might say I’m spamming with this blog — but can one post a day really count as spam? Besides, I’m a young, bold, and rather charming author (heh).
As a little teaser — and a lead-in to what comes next — I’d like to share a video from a shoot that actually inspired the second chapter. (scratches the back of her head)
Originally, it was meant to be a direct continuation of the first chapter, without any split. But later I decided it would work better as a separate piece — even though it ended up being the shortest one so far.
It’s a bit of a shame the site doesn’t seem to allow adding images to posts. Or maybe I just haven’t figured out how to do it yet. If I'm wrong, tell me how to do it.
As for the video — it’s from a 2015 shoot, somewhere on the outskirts of a large city.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n4xYV3GoRKc
We’ve been thinking about something lately and wanted to get your opinion.
How appealing would it be if books were presented in a flipbook-style format — with an image on the left (maybe even animated) and the text on the right?
We’re fully aware that a story like Twins, in its current form, would never make it onto platforms like ZBookOnline or Amazon.
Train 887 might also be problematic because of its violent content.
Temptation for the Head of Security is a bit safer in that sense, although even there we’re not entirely sure about some parts.
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