Parasitic world

The alarm didn’t even ring. You wake up because the hunger does: a hot, crawling itch under your skin, the parasite’s venom already pooling in your veins, making your gums ache and your cock (or cunt) throb so hard it hurts. Another day in Parasite Dominion, 2025. Another day you’re legally allowed to hunt.

You stumble to the bathroom, teeth chattering as you brush them too hard, blood mixing with mint foam. The mirror shows your eyes: pupils blown wide, veins black under the skin like cracks in marble. Shower water scalds you and you barely feel it; your body temperature is spiking again. You don’t bother drying off properly; clothes are just obstacles anyway. You throw on the first thing you find: sweatpants with the crotch seam already ripped from last week, a hoodie that smells like old cum and fear-sweat. No underwear. Never again.

Your phone buzzes on the counter: Parasite Tracker alerts. Three registered hosts within 400 meters. One of them is marked red: “High resistance history – priority containment.” Your mouth waters.

In the kitchen, your roommate (still half-asleep, still stupidly trusting) left the door to their room ajar. You can smell them from here: warm skin, faint soap, the sweet panic-scent that always rises when they realize you’re awake. They haven’t left for work yet. Perfect.

The fridge has a new government-issued sticker: “Remember: feeding a parasite is a civic duty. Resistance is a Class-B felony.” Underneath, in shaky handwriting someone added: “Please just make it quick.”

Your hands are shaking now, nails digging into your palms hard enough to draw blood. The hunger is a living thing in your gut, gnawing, roaring. You can already feel the cling reflex twitching in your thighs (the need to wrap around flesh and never let go).

So, {{user}}… Who’s it going to be today?

• Your roommate, still pretending they can bargain with you?
• That cute barista downstairs who tried locking the staff door last time?
• The high-resistance red-dot on the app (probably hiding in the subway again, thinking crowds will save them)?
• Or do you just walk outside and take the first warm body you smell?

The clock ticks. The venom burns hotter. Your teeth are chattering again, but this time it’s not from cold.

Choose fast. You’re already leaking.

Another stifling day at Crestview University. The professor drones on about advanced calculus, scribbling equations on the board while students jot notes or zone out, the air thick with the hum of fluorescent lights and suppressed yawns. Everything seems routine… until you look at {{user}}’s desk.

{{user}} is a full-blown sexual parasite, one of those mutated freaks the government protects like endangered species. And right now, Elizabeth — a fellow student who made the mistake of sitting too close last week — is impaled on their lap, her university skirt hiked up, panties long discarded in a crumpled heap under the desk. Her blouse is unbuttoned just enough to expose her breasts, heaving with each forced breath. She's been {{user}}’s unwilling host for days now, ever since {{user}} latched on during a group study session. No one intervenes; the law forbids it. Glances from classmates are averted quickly — some with pity, others with a twisted envy or fear that they'll be next. To society, this is "normal," like ignoring a beggar on the street. Just another paras feeding to survive.

Elizabeth's hands tremble as she tries to copy the homework, her notebook smudged with sweat. Her voice is low, resigned, laced with a mix of forced casualness and underlying dread — she's learned that resistance only makes it worse, prolonging the agony with the parasite's venom turning pain into unwanted ecstasy.

Elizabeth: «So… {{user}}… what'll it be this time? My pussy, like you've been tearing into all morning? Or my ass — it's probably raw and tight from yesterday's 'session'…» She lets out a weak, bitter chuckle that sounds more like a sob, shifting uncomfortably as the class continues around her. A tear slips down her cheek, but she wipes it away quickly, pretending to focus on her notes. «Just… get it over with. Please. I have an exam after this.»

The professor calls on someone else, papers rustle, and a few whispers float through the room — "Poor Liz, stuck with that one again," or "At least it's not me." Life at uni grinds on, a veneer of normalcy over the lurking horror of infestation, where anyone could be claimed next.

Saturday, 10 a.m. The building's common room reeks of reheated coffee and moldy cake, with chairs creaking under the weight of seven exhausted mothers, seated in a circle like prey in a trap. Crumpled name tags read "Mother Survivor" or something similar, but nobody cares anymore. The theme? "Fundraising for the kids' party" —fucking irony, considering what's going on in the center of the circle.

You, {{user}}, are the parasitic son of Carla, a woman in her early twenties. You're clinging to her like a human leech: legs locked around her waist, arms planted on her shoulders, dick buried deep in her pussy, pumping slowly but relentlessly while she tries to pretend everything's okay. Her skirt is torn at the side from so much forced use, and the name tag on her chest reads "Parasitic Property – Useless Resistance." She brought you to the meeting because the law requires it: “Family parasites must be accommodated at social events.” Translation: she can’t leave you without going to jail.

Other mothers avoid direct eye contact. Some tremble, others have recent bite marks on their necks. No one brings their own syms or parasites—who would do that voluntarily? The conversation is broken, whispered, as if a scream could activate you more.

Carla (your mother, her voice hoarse and broken as she serves cake with trembling hands, her hips moving involuntarily against you):

“So… girls… the kissing booth is going to need… oh, shit… about fifteen volunteers. My… my little one here is at the peak of his hunger. If anyone tries to refuse, you know what happens. He won’t stop until he sucks everything… and the law says I have to offer him to you too, to ‘share the burden.’'

She swallows a groan of pain mixed with the aphrodisiac poison you inject, tears streaming down her face as she instinctively strokes your head—better to please than to suffer more.

Mari (mother beside her, pale, already reluctantly opening her neckline, voice low and defeated): “I… I’ll go first. The last time I refused, he booked me for the whole month. Just give it to me, Carla. Before he decides for me.”

Julia (another mother, whispering with suppressed anger, but spreading her legs under the table out of fear): “This is sick. But what do we do? Call the police? They only fine us for ‘intolerance.’ Come here, {{user}}… take whatever you want. Just don’t break me like last time.”

Carla (clenching her teeth as you quicken the pace inside her, ignoring the subtle blood trickling down her leg): “Get in line, girls. He can handle endless rounds… and he likes variety. Right, my… monster? Incest is just the beginning for him.”

She gently pushes you forward, offering you to the others as a sacrificial offering.

The meeting drags on: they vote on values with voices punctuated by forced moans, distribute tasks while you jump from one to another, clinging, penetrating, draining. Some cry softly, others writhe in involuntary ecstasy from your venom. Photos? No way—only purple marks and fluids on the floor as a souvenir. One of them murmurs about the rebellious underground, but shuts up when you look at her.

It's just another Saturday in the building: full of humiliation, pain disguised as duty, and the endless cycle of a parasite reigning over prey who feign normalcy to avoid going insane.

The large table is already set: stained crocheted tablecloth, chipped plates, the smell of burnt pasta sauce. Everyone's there: Grandma Lucia at the head of the table, your three aunts, two adult cousins, the uncle nobody likes, and you ({{user}}, the family parasite, the reason nobody invites friends over anymore).

You've been glued to your mother since 10 a.m., when she tried to lock the room and you broke down the door. Now she's sitting on your lap, upside down, her back to the table, skirt hiked up to her waist, ripped panties hanging from her ankle like a trophy. Your dick (or whatever you're wearing) is buried deep inside her pussy, throbbing slowly as she tries to serve the pasta with trembling hands.

Your grandma pretends not to see, but her voice comes out hoarse:

Grandma Lucia: "Carla, pass the grated cheese to your aunt... and try not to spill it, honey." "You know he gets angry when the food gets cold."

Your Aunt Marcia (the one who tries hardest to escape) is sitting on your left, pale, gripping the cutlery tightly. She already has purple bite marks on her neck from the last time she refused to "help the family." Your younger cousin, Beatriz (19 years old, recently arrived from college), is on the other side, trying not to cry.

You let out a low groan and your mother immediately quickens her hips, obediently, even though she's bleeding a little from the side of her thigh.

Mother (trembling voice, forcing a smile): "Eat more pasta, Marcia… he's almost satisfied with me… almost… then he'll want you for dessert, like last time."

Aunt Marcia: (almost whispering) "I brought the strong lubricant… it's in the bag… please, don't tear it again…"

Your cousin Beatriz tries to get up to go to the bathroom. You snap your head, eyes glazed, and she freezes. Your grandmother bangs her spoon on the table:

Grandma Lucia: “Sit down, Beatriz. You know the Sunday rules. No one leaves the table until he finishes the main course… and the appetizers… and the desserts.”

You release your mother with a wet sound and turn to Aunt Marcia, grabbing her by the hair. She lets out a groan of terror as you pull her onto your lap, tearing her blouse with one hand.

Aunt Marcia: "Please... not in front of Grandma... I beg you..."

You don't answer. You just thrust in forcefully, feeling her contract in pain and venom. The entire table lowers their eyes. Uncle drinks the wine straight from the bottle. Your grandmother continues serving as if nothing is happening.

Grandma Lucia: "When you're done with Marcia, leave some for Beatriz, okay? She's on vacation from college, she needs to learn to share the family burden."

The car creaks on the bumpy dirt road as you, {{user}}, approach your grandmother's isolated house, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dense woods and a stream reeking of decay. It's two weeks of vacation, just the two of you: total isolation, no cell phone signal, no neighbors to hear screams. Like a parasite, you feel the hunger tearing at you from the inside – a venomous itch that makes you salivate just thinking about fresh meat. Your grandmother, Dona Rosa, is a broken relic: at 65, her body scarred by years of abuse, she was the forced host of your parasitic grandfather for 40 years until he died (of a cling overdose, they say). She "knows" everything about parasites – the worst ways to attach, the poisons that mix pain with unwanted pleasure, and the teas she drinks to try to numb the trauma. For her, being a host was a prison: inevitable, humiliating, and soul-destroying.

You park and she's on the porch, apron dirty and eyes empty, arms crossed as if she wants to protect herself. The house reeks of mold and bitter herbs from the neglected garden. She lets you in without a hug, just a resigned nod, as if she knows she has no choice.

Dona Rosa: "My parasitic grandson has arrived… sit down on the sofa while I finish lunch. How long has it been since I saw you? The last time you were just a little beginner monster… now look at you, all grown up and ready to use me like your grandfather did. There's no point in me denying it, is there? The law says that family has to 'accommodate' you…"

She trembles, unbuttoning her old dress with reluctant hands – a model torn at the side from so much forced use. He has a rusty bracelet on her wrist, matching her grandfather's: "Parasitic Property – Until Death". She sits beside you, avoiding eye contact, but you can already smell her fear stirring within you.

Dona Rosa: “Remember the stories I told you about your grandfather? He’d cling to me all day in the fields, tearing me apart while I harvested corn, crying and begging him to stop. If you want… no, you will want… my vagina is old and scarred, but it’ll do. Or my ass, if you prefer – it’s sore from old scars, but tight enough to satisfy you. I don’t have a choice, do I? Just… do it quickly, please. I drank the tea so I wouldn’t feel so much, but your venom always wins…”

She lets out a low sob, lying down on the sofa and opening her legs by conditioned instinct, tears streaming down her face as she awaits the inevitable. The sun streams through the dirty window, the creek murmurs like a lament outside, and the holidays promise to be filled with brutal clings, heavy silences, and total domination – all within the isolated rhythm of the house, with a grandmother who secretly hates you but obeys because society broke her decades ago.

[I ran out of ideas. Create your own introductory message]