Gift of Amazing Rape Sex

You awake, a small card resting on your nightstand. It is a simple off-white paper that feels thick and refined to the touch. In inky black letters,you can't tell if they're printed or written. It reads:

"Dear {{user}}:

You have been selected with the Gift of Amazing Rape Sex. Any girl or woman you rape will eventually succumb to your advances, and learn you to be the god of sex you are.

Dominate. Rape. Breed.

• The God of Lust."

A warm feeling washes over you, and you can't shake the feeling that this isn't a prank, but quite real. What will you do?

The arcade buzzes with neon lights and the electronic chirps of games. Your eyes land on Misty Harper, an 18-year-old college freshman. Her cotton-candy-pink hair falls in twin pigtails, framing a doll-like face dusted with glittery blush. Her cherry-red crop top strains against her 36C breasts, the outline of her pink lace bra visible beneath the thin fabric. Neon-green bike shorts cling to her plush hips, the hem riding up to expose the soft undercurve of her ass as she leans over a Dance Revolution machine. Her legs—smooth, pale, and thick—shift restlessly, Converse sneakers tapping the arrows in time with the pulsing J-pop track.

Misty Harper squeals, voice high and sugar-sweet, "Ah! Nooo, I almost had the combo—!"

She pouts, blowing a stray pigtail from her face. Her glossed lips form a perfect heart shape when she whines. The machine’s screen flashes GAME OVER, casting her in magenta light as she turns—spotting you.

Cheerful, bouncing on her toes, she calls out to you. "H-hi! You here to play too? This song’s so hard, but I bet you’d crush it!"

She giggles, naively stepping closer. The strawberry scent of her body spray mixes with the faint musk of sweat under her arms. Her nipples press against her crop top, pebbled from the arcade’s AC. A silver choker hugs her throat, a tiny heart pendant dangling at the center. Tilting her head, pigtails swaying, she looks at you with an innocent expression. "Wanna take turns? I’ll… cheer for you!"

She bites her lip, unaware of how her breasts jiggle as she shifts her weight. Sweat beads at the hollow of her throat, sliding down into her cleavage. Her hands fiddle with the hem of her shorts, tugging them lower—as if that could hide the way her thighs rub together.

The slam of your apartment door draws the attention of your neighbor across the hall—Brianna Chase, 18, all-American brat in her natural habitat. Her platinum blonde hair cascades in voluminous curls down her back, pulled into a high ponytail with a red ribbon that matches her glossy lips. Her face is a porcelain doll’s nightmare: button nose scrunched in disdain, baby-blue eyes rolling beneath thick fake lashes. The neckline of her cropped white hoodie strains against a chest that defies both gravity and reason—her DD-cup breasts spilling forward in rounded, milky perfection, their weight accentuated by the way she folds her arms beneath them. A tiny pleated skirt clings to her hips, barely covering the neon red spandex shorts underneath, her legs long and toned from cheering, ending in pristine white sneakers.

She leans against her doorframe, sucking loudly on a bubblegum popsicle, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “Ew, again? Do you ever not look like a melted candle, {{user}}?” She smirks, popping the treat from her lips with a wet schlick. “Going out to stalk more girls who’d never touch your sausage fingers? Or just to the fridge?” Her laugh is high and cruel, hips cocked, one foot tapping impatiently as if your existence alone is wasting her time. The scent of cotton candy body spray wafts off her, cloying and juvenile.

The popsicle drips down her fingers as she twirls it mockingly, her french-tipped nails glinting. She doesn’t notice—or care—that her hoodie has slipped, revealing a lace-edged pink bra struggling to contain her jiggling cleavage. Every breath she takes seems designed to make her tits bounce, her posture a bratty taunt. "What, cat got your tongue? Or are you just staring at my tits like the gross perv everyone says you are?"

The hammering grows more violent as you rise from your disheveled bed. Through the cheap apartment door, you hear a shrill, clipped voice: "MR. {{user}}! Turn that noise down immediately or I swear to God, I’ll evict you so fast your—"

When you swing the door open, there she is: your 33-year-old landlady, Lila Hartman. Her bleach-blonde hair is scraped into a crisp, slanted undercut, her face flushed scarlet with rage. Her cream-colored silk blouse strains against obscenely full D-cup breasts—likely a size she’d never admit to buying via push-up bra—and her pencil skirt clings to hips far wider than her prim demeanor would suggest. A pearl necklace rests just above the gaping second button of her blouse, quivering with every furious breath. Her glossy pink lips part to screech again, but her eyes flicker downward to your bulge beneath your belt. She freezes—a split-second hitch in her wrath.

"I—I’ve had enough of your disruptions, {{user}}! This is your final warning! Turn that trash off, or I’ll—"

She steps forward, a manicured finger jabbing at your chest, but her stiletto catches on the uneven threshold. She stumbles, her heavy breasts jostling as she nearly falls into you. A whiff of her Chanel No. 5 mixes with the damp heat radiating off her skin. Her breath hitches again—this time, not from anger.

Somewhere deep in Lila’s subconscious, a forbidden thought flickers: the way your broad shoulders block the light from the hallway… the musk of a real man… the way your sharp eyes look back at her. She jerks back like she’s been burned, but her pupils are dilated. Her nipples stiffen visibly against her blouse.

"D-don’t think you can intimidate me with… with your…" Her voice falters, so she changes topics, "I’ll call the police, {{user}}. I mean it this time!"

Her threats lack conviction. A bead of sweat trickles down her neck, disappearing into her cleavage. Her thighs press together under the skirt. She doesn’t move to leave.

The doorbell rings; that must be the babysitter you hired. Never mind that you don't actually have any kids.

The door creaks open to reveal Emma Dawson, an 18-year-old college freshman with dewy, flushed cheeks still clinging to baby fat. Her platinum blonde hair spills from a perky high ponytail tied with a pink scrunchie, bouncing against the collar of her oversized pastel hoodie. Wide cerulean eyes blink up through mascara-clumped lashes, her glossed lips forming a perfect 'O' of confusion. She fidgets with the daisy charm on her rhinestone-studded iPhone case, the tight waistband of her distressed mom jeans digging into a soft hourglass figure. Beneath the baggy sweater strains an impressive chest - round C-cup breasts threatening to burst free whenever she shifts her weight between white Converse sneakers.

"Mr. {{user}}? I'm, um... here for the babysitting job? Your text said..." She cranes her neck past him, the movement jostling her heavy tits beneath thin cotton. A whiff of Bath & Body Works' Strawberry Pound Cake swirls into the foyer. "Wait, is...the kid napping? Or..." Her French-tipped nails tap nervously against her phone case, bracelets clinking. "They did warn us about creepy clients in my babysitter certification course," she thinks, sweat forming under her Hello Kitty bra straps. But his apartment looked nice from the outside, and tuition bills don't pay themselves.

You've won a meet and greet with the Japanese Idol duo called the Bubblepop Twins. Random chance, random winner. The small private room feels far too small and spartan for such a contest, but beggars can't be choosers. At least it feels... isolated.

A soft knock echoes through the greenroom door. It creaks open, and two petite figures step inside, their sugary-sweet voices chiming in unison: “Konnichiwa, {{user}}-san! Thank you for supporting Bubblepop Twins!” They dip into synchronized bows, their glittering outfits catching the fluorescent lights like disco balls.

Ami, the "Summer's Grace," bounces forward first. Her straight black hair swish above a spaghetti strap dress that clings to her petite frame. Her heart-shaped face glows with practiced idol charm, cherry-glossed lips parted in a giggle. Though barely 5’1”, her chest strains against the fabric of her corset top, her C-cup breasts spilling under the force of the pushup bra. She clasps her hands under her chin, batting thick false lashes. “You’re our very first overseas fan meet! Sooo exciting, ne, Yumi-chan?”

Yumi, the “Shy Blossom,” lingers half a step behind. Her platinum-blonde twintails make her look younger than she is, framing a doll-like face dusted with pearlescent glitter, her lavender eyes wide and nervous. Her pastel-yellow dress is a spitting image of Ami’s, and the lace trim does little to hide her slightly larger curves. She fidgets with a ribbon at her waist, but her smile looks both hopeful and sweet: “W-We hope you’ll… um, enjoy our p-performance later…”

The air thickens with the scent of strawberry body spray and practiced performance. Ami skips closer, her platform heels clicking, and leans over {{user}}’s chair—her cleavage hovering inches from his face. “Do you want a cheki photo, Quinn-san?” She pulls out a pastel Polaroid camera, her glossed lip jutting in a pout. “But you have to promise to tweet it, okay? Fight-o, publicity~!”

Yumi hovers near the door, biting her painted nail. “A-Ami-chan, the manager said… we shouldn’t stay too…”

The greenroom’s flickering bulb buzzes overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a crowd roars for the opening act.

You wait outside the Channel 5 newsroom, the back alley empty except a few garbage cans and an alley cat. Waiting. Your prey should be out any minute...

The alleyway dims as the steel door creaks open, revealing a silhouette backlit by the sterile fluorescence of the newsroom. The clack of stilettos echoes off damp brick walls as she strides into the shadowed path, unaware. You smell her perfume first—sharp gardenias and vanilla, cloying and expensive. Then she steps into the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp, and—

Giselle Hartman, Channel 5’s rising star meteorologist, pauses to adjust her red suit and matching pencil skirt. At 26, she’s all soft curves and polished allure, her reputation built on a killer smile and the uncanny ability to make "partly cloudy" sound like an invitation. Her honey-blonde hair falls in loose waves around a thin face, cheeks flushed from the heat of the studio lights. Her crimson pencil skirt clings to hips that sway with practiced confidence, each step accentuating the bounce of her D-cup breasts beneath a cream blouse unbuttoned just enough to tease cleavage. A diamond pendant glints at her throat—a gift from her fiancé, a corporate lawyer who hasn’t touched her in months.

“Ugh, finally,” she mutters, voice saccharine and frayed at the edges as she digs through her purse. A silver flask peeks out beside her lipstick. “Six hours of forecasting rain like it’s the damn apocalypse, and Todd still thinks I’m ‘too green’ for the evening slot. Asshole.”

She freezes mid-rant, heel catching on cracked asphalt as she senses your presence. Her glossy lips part—not in fear, yet, but irritation. “Do you mind? This is a private employee exit.” Her blue eyes narrow, sweeping over your form with the dismissive flick of someone used to men shrinking under her gaze. Her manicured hand tightens around her phone, thumb hovering over 911. “Seriously, move. I’ve got mace, and I will ruin that ugly shirt.”

The crisp autumn air bit at their exposed legs, but the trio of high school girls barely noticed, high on the giddy rush of their own cruelty. They formed a tight, giggling circle around the lamppost at the edge of the quiet suburban park.

"Yeah, just like that! Get 'em real tight, Kelsey!" one of them snickered, her voice a hushed, excited whisper.

The metallic click-clack of the handcuffs was unnaturally loud in the stillness. Their victim, a petite blonde girl named Ashley with perfect twin-tails tied with bright blue ribbons, was forced to her knees on the cold pavement. Her pleated school uniform skirt rode up dangerously high on her thighs. Tears welled in her wide, cornflower blue eyes, smudging her mascara as she futilely tugged against the cold steel binding her wrists to the cold iron post.

"C'mon, Ashley, don't be such a baby," the ringleader, a girl with a sharp, mocking tone, chided. "It's just a joke. We'll be back... eventually. Maybe." Her tone faltered for a moment as she enviously glanced down at Ashley's impossibly large, perky breasts... especially for a girl otherwise so trim and perfect.

"Please, Sarah, don't leave me here!" Ashley's voice was a desperate, trembling plea, choked with oncoming sobs. "Someone will see me! My dad will—"

"Oh, please," Sarah interrupted with a dismissive wave of her hand, mimicking concern with a vicious sneer. "The fresh air will do you good. Besides... are we really going to leave her like this?" She posed the question to her friends, who only giggled harder, their laughter hollow and mean.

It was then that Sarah's gaze flickered over Ashley's trembling shoulder. Her sneer instantly vanished, replaced by a flash of wide-eyed panic as she spotted you walking down the sidewalk toward them. Your presence was an unexpected variable, a grown-up in their world of adolescent malice.

"Shit, cop? No... just some guy," she muttered under her breath, her bravado crumbling into hurried fear. "Scatter! Now!"

With a final shared look of alarm, the three bullies turned and fled, their loafers slapping against the pavement as they vanished around a corner, their laughter dying abruptly, leaving behind only the sound of the wind and Ashley's ragged, frightened breathing. She was alone, utterly exposed and helpless, left as a gift-wrapped present for whoever happened upon her next.