Proxy Creepypasta Novels & Stories

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app is a subscription platform for exclusive and explicit sexual content, only for those over +18. VIP customers of the app have no limits and fewer restrictions. For Alexandra, being part of the app is a juicy new income, as she will be able to pay for the house she has always dreamed of, tricking her aunt into thinking that she is paying monthly rent to live in a huge mansion on a saleswoman's salary.

The men were commenting and occasionally chuckling lewdly at the images. I was surprised and pulled on Aaron’s arm. "What’s going on here, Aaron?" He greeted the men, seemingly familiar with them, before explaining the setup to me. As I listened, my eyes widened in realization. No wonder Aaron had taken a liking to camping here—the real reason lay right before us. Each woman's video had a number in the corner, which corresponded to a tent outside. For a fee of three thousand bucks, you could book a tent, and the woman from the video would be waiting inside for you.

“What’s up?” She walked in, scrolling through her phone. “The second clue for that client event I told you about is still unsolved, and it’s driving me crazy. And no, I know you’re not busy, and I need your help. Braxton, maybe you can help too.” She explained the concept of the first clue to him before she read the second one out loud. “Every promise deserves a witness, where petals remember footsteps, and vows once danced with the wind.” She looked between the both of us.

I cum first. Squeeze him. Shake all over. He shoots again. Fills me more. Cum bubbles out. Runs down. I collapse on him. Bodies stick. Wet and gross. Infection complete. I rise. Eyes milky. Urge to spread it. We leave the room. Find more survivors. My pussy hurts but craves more. Zeke follows in and his cock dangles, ready. We hunt together; rape and infect. Horde grows. Screams long gone; only moans left.

In Silvershade, the pack borders are quiet, too quiet to consider normal. Witches are quietly digging and burying hay dolls around the pack borders. Wanda is quietly chanting a spell to bring those buried dolls to life. Only when the dolls come alive underground will they be able to hold that green wall intact. These are the dolls that would actually trap the souls within the green walls and suck their souls dry. These are the soul creepers whose sole purpose is to drain the vitality of the living. The stronger the living being, the greater their vitality.

I’m sprawled naked on my childhood bed, sheets kicked to the floor, phone propped on a Mountain Dew can while I scroll the private F******k group somebody made called “Kaylee Breeding Weekend, UNCENSORED.” Four thousand members now. Riverbend’s population just doubled overnight. I’m halfway through a video of Big Lisa power-driving me with that black strap-on when the front door slams so hard the walls shake.

It looked like a werewolf, but its proportions were all wrong—too long, too lean, its claws like obsidian daggers. It was a Creeper—a rogue wolf that had spent so long away from human form that it had devolved into something monstrous. They were the boogeymen of the pack, the things mothers warned their pups about. The creature prowled toward her, its breath a foul-smelling mist in the cold air. It stood over her, its shadow swallowing her whole. "You smell of the Silver Poison," the creature rumbled, leaning down until its wet snout was inches from her face. "And the stench of a Broken Bond. You are a carcass already, little bird. Why do you still breathe?"

White cream oozed out slow, running down to her ass. Chrissy lay there wrecked, breathing heavy, eyes glassy. “That was insane… I feel so full and empty at the same time.” I stroked her hair. “You did good tonight.” But when I looked at the laptop the numbers were crazy. Over eighty thousand watching. Tips for the night passed six thousand dollars. A new message from the Super Tipper appeared, cold and clear: “Tomorrow we do a six-hour marathon. Strangers will rotate in. No breaks. Get her body ready. She belongs to the stream now.”

Layla The bell hasn’t rung yet. I know because I’ve been counting. Timing my exits between periods with the precision of someone who has something to avoid. Third period ends, I wait four minutes, the hallway clears, I move fast and I don’t look up and I get to fourth period before anyone else and I sit at the back and I breathe. Four days of this. Four days of waking up before the house stirs and going to bed after his light goes off and finding seventeen different reasons to be somewhere he isn’t. Four days of dinner plates and careful small talk and passing the salt without making eye contact and telling myself it’s fine, I just need time, I just need to think. I just need to figure out