Pervert Game Novels & Stories

"Don't lick there. Not now... My husband's calling..." I answered the phone, my face burning with shame. The husband on the other end of the line had no idea his beloved wife had another man's head between her thighs at that very moment.

After arguing with my husband, Percy Egan, over our intimacy incompatibility, I decide to stay over at Katie Langdon, my best friend's house for the night. Unexpectedly, Katie's husband, Stefan Foley, has returned from his business trip on the same day. Having mistaken me for Katie, he crawls over my prone body instantly and begins groping me everywhere. Strong waves of pleasure as well as Stefan's scent attack me from all sides. Dizzy from the sensations, I find myself panicking because of how abruptly these powerful yet foreign feelings are overwhelming me. Meanwhile, Stefan's huge member keeps wedging against me. It makes me feel as though it can kill me just by penetrating me. For the first time ever, my body trembles in a mixture of fright and anticipation.

"Mm… Mr. Wood, this feels a little uncomfortable…" I lay still as Ronald Wood, a well-known man from my town, guided me through what he called a 'special training' session. His fingers were strong and precise, pressing along my muscles in a way that made my whole body tense up. It was not exactly pain, but it was not something I was used to either. He leaned closer, one hand steadying my waist. "Does it feel strange? Don't worry. You'll get used to it soon."

"Chels, you're turned on too, aren't you?" During a visit to the haunted house with my best friend, Chelsea Higgins, and her boyfriend, Ivan Benton, Ivan has mistaken me for Chelsea and has embraced me from behind. I can feel his warm palm slowly sliding up the hem of my skirt in the pitch-black darkness. At the same time, his hot breath keeps splaying over my nape and my earlobe. The most embarrassing thing is, I'm starting to get turned on by Ivan's actions for real.

"I'm sorry, Harold! I won't come to the bar ever again… Ah, you can't touch me there…" A drunk, beautiful woman clad in a pair of black stockings can be seen at the entrance of a bar at midnight. Since she's lying on the sidewalk, her white panties are all exposed. Elated, I stick my hand beneath her skirt. Little do I know that the woman, Crystal Conley, has mistaken me for her sugar daddy, Harold Townsend, and thinks that I'm here to teach her a lesson. She's so petrified that she dares not move a muscle. I use the opportunity to part her legs and pin her down hungrily. Poor Crystal shrieks in fright, "How could you punish me like this, Harold?"

As Christmas drew near, my little sister claimed she’d seen Santa Claus in the house. “He had four legs, real long, like dead branches. He crawled on the floor like a dog. His mouth was full of teeth, and I saw him with my own eyes, climbing out of the chimney. His bones were making this clicking, clacking sound.” The Santa she described was nothing like the legends. My parents and I thought it was just her imagination. Until I posted about it online. A user named “NocturneNotes” insisted my sister wasn’t lying, and that the thing was dangerous. Panicked, I asked him what we should do. He gave me three rules: “On Christmas Eve, from 11:30 PM to 2:00 AM, the entire family must ‘sleep’ by the Christmas tree.” “You can’t actually fall asleep, or you’ll die in your sleep.” “No matter what you hear or feel, you absolutely cannot open your eyes or stop pretending to be asleep. Once it hits 2:00 AM, it will leave on its own.”

It all began with a single post about canceling a food delivery order. Overnight, I became the internet's punching bag. Thousands of vicious messages flooded my inbox, filled with photoshopped memorials urging me to die. They doxxed my family, plastered my personal details across shady websites, and used AI to create obscene images of me, spreading them in vile chat groups. They spread lies about my income, claiming it came from illicit sources, and accused me of carrying diseases. I didn't call the police or block the messages. Instead, I read every hateful word before singling out the 100 worst offenders. Every day, I sent each one a luxurious meal: Boston lobster, Australian wagyu, the works. Each delivery came with a simple note: [Thank you for your hard work.]

My younger sister was crazy about novels and always envied the way ordinary heroines pick up penniless heroes and climb the social ladder. So, she started picking up men wherever she could. Until one day, a man with a face covered in sores collapsed at our doorstep. I instantly recognized the signs of syphilis and warned my sister repeatedly, and only then did she give up the idea. However, fate had other plans: my sister's best friend "picked him up" instead and married into a wealthy family. My sister held a grudge. On my birthday, she locked me in my room and set it on fire. No matter how desperately I begged, she refused to open the door. Outside, she sneered: "I know you're just scared I'll live better than you, so you want to drag me down into misery with you. People like you don't even deserve to be a sister!" I burned alive, my body reduced to nothing but ashes. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day my sister insisted on "picking up that man." This time, I quietly stepped back, letting her have her way—of course, I chose to let her succeed.

Feeling overwhelmed by loneliness, I installed a one-way mirror in the bedroom of the apartment next door, which I specifically rent out to muscular men. One day, through the mirror on the wall, I watched my tenant with his girlfriend, caught up in their fiery passion. I couldn't help but be drawn to his strong physique and impressive size. One day, I pulled him into a small, dimly lit cubicle with me...

“Mhm, so tingly! My body can’t take it anymore. I really want it...” I was in a maternity store while shirtless, demonstrating how to use a breast pump. My body tingled as the soft silicone pumped on my sensitive spots. What made it worse was that it was a public demonstration. It attracted quite a few married men. They were staring at my body. Their intense gazes made me feel shy and worked up. Ridiculously, three men actually asked me to demonstrate which positions would make it easy to get their wives pregnant.