Collective-stories Novels & Stories

“I told you, I won’t force you.” “But we must, I mean we can’t fake the-” “We’ll mark each other. It'll be enough to sustain our story. I know how you feel about it, but the mark will fade away eventually. We'll renew it once in a while.” By the end of this talk, he was only in his underwear. A small whimper escaped my mouth causing me to slap a hand over it. His laugh filled the room. Despite the turmoil of emotions that were ravaging my mind, I couldn’t deny the fact that his body was nothing less than perfect.

The Taboo Chronicles is a curated collection of dark, twisted, and unapologetically erotic stories designed to push the boundaries of conventional desire. From the sacred halls of a silent church to the high-stakes shadows of obsessive power plays, these stories explore the raw, unyielding side of human hunger. Whether it’s the thrill of a secret shared in the dark or the surrender of a soul to a dominant force, nothing is off-limits.

We talked for hours as the night wore on. “You really thought about quitting because of burnout?” I asked, tracing a finger along his chest. “Yeah. Days blurred together. Then you started coming in regularly. Made me look forward to shifts again.” He smiled in the low light. “What about you? Why history?” “I like stories that last,” I said. “People who lived real lives hundreds of years ago. Makes my problems feel small.” We laughed softly. Then the touching started again. This time I climbed on top, riding him slow while we kept talking. He looked up at me like I was something special. His hands roamed my body, squeezing my breasts, guiding my hips.

Until now, strange short stories had only very short stories. But from volume two I intend to add stories that have 10 to 20 captains as well. These stories are not so long nor have so much visibility as a separated book. For this reason, I decided to move all then into strange short stories, that is already a storybook of different themes.

she asked. "You'd live here. Sleep in our space...we all share the upstairs loft. Be available sexually to any of us, any time. Participate in all sessions, all commissions, all exhibitions. You'd essentially be our collective property. Our living artwork. Our muse and our fucktoy." "Would I still have autonomy? Could I refuse specific requests?" "Of course. This is collaborative. But the expectation is that you're generally available and willing. Think of it as... consensual ownership. You belong to us, but you choose to belong to us."

I asked sarcastically. He didn't answer, but the reluctant look on his face told me there were. "There are more?" I gasped, shaking my head, flabbergasted. "I was being sarcastic." "Yes, there are lots of lonely women in this neighborhood," he admitted. "Lonely women?" I echoed, bewildered by this conversation. "Yeah, and I've learned that the women around here share their secrets with each other," he elaborated. "What does that even mean?" "Well... Mrs. Peck told Mrs. Gregory, who told Mrs. Appleton, who told Mrs. Wallace that I have a very impressive..." he paused, not finishing the sentence..

"We anchor each other. Not just our individual packs. All of us. All three hundred. We're family now. We're network. We're unity. We ground together. We stay together. We choose together. All of us. Always." During tremors. When territories merged. When reality became one. Three hundred voices spoke together. Three hundred presences anchored together. Three hundred souls chose together. "Stay here. Stay real. Stay present. We're here. We're together. We're real. Void isn't home. Between isn't reality. Here is real. We are real. Stay. Stay. Stay." Collective grounding was powerful. More powerful than individual. More powerful than small pack. Three hundred voices. Three hundred presences. Thr

Or so I thought, until the night the sky turned the color of a fresh kill. I was running beneath the Blood Moon, the air thick and copper-scented, when the atmosphere suddenly curdled. It was like a physical weight a surge of electricity that made my hackles rise and my heart hammer against my ribs. It was a scent I recognized from old legends and hushed warnings. The Alpha Pack. There were five of them. They weren't just wolves; they were a force of nature, known for a ruthlessness that kept every other pack in the territory silent. They were a collective massive, dominant, and tonight, they were hunting.

“This meeting was a waste of time. There’s a real threat on the horizon, and our people are not ready because they refuse to listen to the facts. Refuse to listen to the pain and suffering we’ve been through while away.” It’s their story to tell. Of course it is. That’s what they always say when they’re deciding something without me. The council, my family, the Fae. When they think they can tuck the truth away like a blade under their sleeve and I won’t feel the weight of it pressing against my ribs when they stab it through my back. Stories are power. The one who tells the story, directs the narrative. And why would men who were my brothers deny me that right?

Can help everyone at once. I faced the Collective. "You want to undo our work? Our love?" "Yes. We will sever every bond you've built. Will restore order." "Right according to who? You? The beings who forgot what bonds were for?" "We made bonds stable. Predictable. Safe." "You made them prisons. You made them chains." Through the network, something happened. Every person across fifteen realities opened their bonds. Showed the Collective what they had. What love had made possible. Thousands of stories. Thousands of choices.