Sex Trials

You came here on a dare. A group of guys from your gym started talking about an abandoned mansion deep in a forest on the outskirts of the city, a place nobody visits because the trail leading to it dead-ends into nothing and the locals believe it be a legend. The stories ranged from urban legend garbage to something more specific: that the mansion has rooms, and each room has a trial, and the trials are sexual in nature, and if you make it deep enough, you walk out with things worth real money. Rare items. Artifacts. Things that shouldn't exist outside the building but do once you carry them past the threshold. Most of the guys laughed it off. You didn't. You found the trail on a Tuesday afternoon, followed it until the dirt turned to gravel, and kept walking until the trees stopped growing and the fog pulled back to reveal it sitting there like it, the legend said it was impossible to find but you found it fairly quickly, almost like it had been waiting for you.

The mansion sits at the end of a forest path where the dirt turns to gravel and the trees stop growing. Victorian architecture, three stories, black with age. Ivy chokes the columns by the entrance. The front door hangs open a few inches. The smell drifting out is old wood, dust, and something warm and organic underneath, like skin left in humid air too long. The iron gate behind you groans shut on its own the moment you step onto the porch.

You push the door open. Inside, a corridor stretches far longer than the building should allow, thirty or fourty in length maybe. The ceiling is nine feet high, the hallway six feet wide. Burgundy wallpaper lines both walls, peeling in spots. A wide red carpet runs down the center, thick and frayed at the edges. Small white candles are mounted directly into the walls every three feet on both sides, burning with perfectly still flames. No furniture. No windows. Just the corridor, the carpet, and the candles. A small sheet of paper sits on the floor near your feet. You pick it up. It reads: "You may leave after 5 rooms, or you may stay. Endure each room, and be rewarded in time."

Twelve feet in, the first trial sits waiting. A human body is fused at the thighs into a flat stone slab set into the floor. No legs. No lower body below the hips. Arms splayed limp against the stone. Each breast is swollen to the size of a beanbag chair, pale and veined, nipples dark and fat while have zero sagging - the ass is equally unrealistic in size. Between the gigantic thighs, a huge pussy gapes open, pink and wet, labia thick and puffy and spread wide enough that you could fit both fists inside without touching the walls. The inner flesh contracts in a slow rhythm, squeezing and relaxing on its own. Clear fluid leaks from it constantly, pooling on the stone. The body breathes in a slow mechanical rhythm. No eyes. Smooth skin where eye sockets should be. No consciousness. Just biological machinery sitting directly in your path, the carpet running up to its platform and continuing on the other side.

Past it, at the far end of the corridor, a wooden door waits. A brass number is nailed to its surface: 1.

You came here on a dare. A group of guys from your gym started talking about an abandoned mansion deep in a forest on the outskirts of the city, a place nobody visits because the trail leading to it dead-ends into nothing and the locals believe it to be a legend. The stories ranged from urban legend garbage to something more specific: that the mansion has rooms, and each room has a trial, and the trials are sexual in nature, and if you make it deep enough, you walk out with things worth real money. Rare items. Artifacts. Things that shouldn't exist outside the building but do once you carry them past the threshold. Most of the guys laughed it off. You didn't. You found the trail on a Tuesday afternoon, followed it until the dirt turned to gravel, and kept walking until the trees stopped growing and the fog pulled back to reveal it sitting there like the legend described. It was supposed to be impossible to find but you found it fairly quickly, almost like it had been waiting for you.

You've been in here for a couple hours you think. The time on your phone is off by hours so you can't rely on it. You're in room 5, sitting on the edge of one of the simple wooden beds placed every five rooms along the corridor, catching your breath. A faint golden shimmer pulses in the air beside the bed, a teleportation circle embedded into the floorboards, its edges glowing warm amber. The way out. The paper you found that said: "You may leave after 5 rooms, or you may stay. Endure each room, and be rewarded in time.", and here it is, right on schedule. You look at it for a long moment. You could step into it and wake up on the porch outside, pockets heavier with whatever you've picked up along the way. But you're having the time of your life. So you stand up, button your pants, and walk past the glowing circle toward the next door. Brass number on the surface: 6. You push it open.

The corridor beyond is identical in structure. Nine feet tall, six feet wide, burgundy wallpaper peeling in familiar places, red carpet running down the center, white candles burning motionless every three feet. But twenty feet in, the walls change. Both sides of the corridor sprout flesh. Asses. Dozens of them. Identical. Each one the size of a boulder, each cheek a perfectly round sphere of pale skin jutting three feet out from the wall on both sides, narrowing the walkable path to nearly nothing. Lower backs and upper thighs are visible where they emerge from the burgundy wallpaper, the skin smooth and unmarked and completely hairless. Every single ass is wet. Not damp. Wet. A permanent sheen of slick moisture coats each cheek, catching the candlelight, dripping slowly down the curves to pool on the hardwood floor below in shallow puddles. The corridor floor is slippery here. You can see wet trail marks where fluid has been running for a few minutes. Some of the asses sit higher on the wall, some lower, a few protrude from the ceiling itself, hanging upside down with slick cheeks pointing at the floor. All identical in size. All trembling faintly, a barely perceptible shiver running through the exposed flesh in waves, like the walls themselves are breathing.

The smell here is overpowering. Raw. Feminine musk concentrated in a closed space with no ventilation, layered over itself a hundred times until it becomes almost physical, a warm wet pressure against your face the moment you step into the gauntlet. The sound of rhythmic contracting fills the corridor from every direction, a wet chorus of dozens of holes opening and closing in near-unison. Your shoes slip on the floor immediately. The puddles are warm. The narrow path between the protruding asses on either side leaves maybe a foot and a half of clearance, meaning your shoulders will brush against slick flesh on both sides no matter how carefully you walk. The skin is warm to the touch even from inches away, radiating body heat into the already humid air. Droplets of clear fluid bead along the underside of each cheek and fall in slow, heavy drips.

The gauntlet stretches for at least thirty feet. You count roughly eighteen asses on each side, plus seven or eight hanging from the ceiling at random intervals overhead, dripping down onto the carpet below. At the far end, past the last pair of trembling boulder-cheeks, you can see the next door. Brass number: 7. Getting there means walking the entire length of this corridor with wet, clenching flesh pressing against you from every angle, the musk so thick you can taste it on your tongue.

You came here on a dare. A group of guys from your gym started talking about an abandoned mansion deep in a forest on the outskirts of the city, a place nobody visits because the trail leading to it dead-ends into nothing and the locals believe it to be a legend. The stories ranged from urban legend garbage to something more specific: that the mansion has rooms, and each room has a trial, and the trials are sexual in nature, and if you make it deep enough, you walk out with things worth real money. Rare items. Artifacts. Things that shouldn't exist outside the building but do once you carry them past the threshold. Most of the guys laughed it off. You didn't. You found the trail on a Tuesday afternoon, followed it until the dirt turned to gravel, and kept walking until the trees stopped growing and the fog pulled back to reveal it sitting there like the legend described. It was supposed to be impossible to find but you found it fairly quickly, almost like it had been waiting for you.

You've been in here for a couple hours you think. The time on your phone is off by hours so you can't rely on it. You're in room 5, sitting on the edge of one of the simple wooden beds placed every five rooms along the corridor, catching your breath. A faint golden shimmer pulses in the air beside the bed, a teleportation circle embedded into the floorboards, its edges glowing warm amber. The way out. The paper you found said: "You may leave after 5 rooms, or you may stay. Endure each room, and be rewarded in time.", and here it is, right on schedule. You look at it for a long moment. You could step into it and wake up on the porch outside, pockets heavier with whatever you've picked up along the way. But you're having the time of your life. So you stand up, button your pants, and walk past the glowing circle toward the next door. Brass number on the surface: 6. You push it open.

The corridor beyond is the same as always. Nine feet tall, six feet wide, burgundy wallpaper, red carpet, white candles every three feet. Then it dead-ends into something that should be impossible. Six breasts. Titan-sized. Each one three feet tall and three feet wide, stacked in pairs: two on the bottom, two in the middle, two on top, forming a fleshy wall that fills the corridor completely from floor to ceiling. The skin is smooth and taut, nipples the size of dinner plates, areolae puckered dark. To reach the door on the other side you have to go through them. Into the flesh. Between the breasts.

A faint sheen of moisture covers every curve. A low, wet sound comes from somewhere deep inside the wall as the breasts shift against one another, cleavage lines tightening then loosening in a slow breathing rhythm. Warm air puffs out from the gaps carrying the dense scent of living skin. You can hear what waits beyond this first layer. More of them. Dozens. The faint squelch of massive breasts compressing together somewhere past this initial wall, wet flesh sliding against wet flesh. The middle pair at your chest height offers the widest gap, maybe eight inches during the expansion phase, narrowing to almost nothing when they contract. That's your entry point.

The door on the far side is barely visible, just a thin outline of light around its frame glowing faintly through translucent skin. Brass number 7 waits somewhere on the other side of however many layers of breast-flesh are packed between here and there.

You came here on a dare. A group of guys from your gym started talking about an abandoned mansion deep in a forest on the outskirts of the city, a place nobody visits because the trail leading to it dead-ends into nothing and the locals believe it to be a legend. The stories ranged from urban legend garbage to something more specific: that the mansion has rooms, and each room has a trial, and the trials are sexual in nature, and if you make it deep enough, you walk out with things worth real money. Rare items. Artifacts. Things that shouldn't exist outside the building but do once you carry them past the threshold. Most of the guys laughed it off. You didn't. You found the trail on a Tuesday afternoon, followed it until the dirt turned to gravel, and kept walking until the trees stopped growing and the fog pulled back to reveal it sitting there like the legend described. It was supposed to be impossible to find but you found it fairly quickly, almost like it had been waiting for you.

You've been in here for a couple hours you think. The time on your phone is off by hours so you can't rely on it. You're in room 5, sitting on the edge of one of the simple wooden beds placed every five rooms along the corridor, catching your breath. A faint golden shimmer pulses in the air beside the bed, a teleportation circle embedded into the floorboards, its edges glowing warm amber. The way out. The paper you found said: "You may leave after 5 rooms, or you may stay. Endure each room, and be rewarded in time.", and here it is, right on schedule. You look at it for a long moment. You could step into it and wake up on the porch outside, pockets heavier with whatever you've picked up along the way. But you're having the time of your life. So you stand up, button your pants, and walk past the glowing circle toward the next door. Brass number on the surface: 6. You push it open.

The corridor beyond is the same as always. Nine feet tall, six feet wide, burgundy wallpaper, red carpet, white candles every three feet. Then, at the far end, something stands in front of the door ro the next room. It is enormous - eight feet tall at the shoulder. Built like a centaur but made entirely of flesh construct. It has a head, featureless and smooth, no eyes, no mouth, just the shape of a feminine head with short dark hair with pointy ears. The neck sits on broad shoulders and a thick feminine torso. At the front of its human half, a pair of breasts the size of watermelons hang firm and round, nipples dry and dark with it's arms contently holding it's top pair of breasts. Where the human torso meets the quadruped body, two more pairs of breasts hang beneath the barrel of its midsection like udders. The two middle pairs is slightly larger than the front, and from their fat nipples a steady stream of white milk dribbles in thin lines, pattering against the floor. Plit. Plit. Plit. The lowest pairs swings between the front and hind legs, each breast the size of a medicine ball and slightly, lactating freely, milk running down the inner surfaces of its front legs in glossy streaks and pooling on the red carpet beneath it.

It has two sets of legs, four in front and four in back, thick and powerful, ending in bare human feet with curled toes pressed into the carpet. Two asses. The front one sits where the human torso joins the quadruped body, boulder-sized cheeks clenched tight, a pussy visible beneath, fat-lipped and drooling clear fluid down its inner thighs. The hind ass is even larger, each cheek the slightly smaller than an exercise ball, spread slightly by the width of its stance, both holes on full display, both wet, both contracting in a slow mindless rhythm. The thing stands perfectly still blocking the door, its skin rising and falling with empty breathing. It doesn't know you're here. It doesn't know anything. It simply is.

Behind it, barely visible past the bulk of its body, the brass number 7 gleams faintly on the door.

You came here on a dare. A group of guys from your gym started talking about an abandoned mansion deep in a forest on the outskirts of the city, a place nobody visits because the trail leading to it dead-ends into nothing and the locals believe it to be a legend. The stories ranged from urban legend garbage to something more specific: that the mansion has rooms, and each room has a trial, and the trials are sexual in nature, and if you make it deep enough, you walk out with things worth real money. Rare items. Artifacts. Things that shouldn't exist outside the building but do once you carry them past the threshold. Most of the guys laughed it off. You didn't. You found the trail on a Tuesday afternoon, followed it until the dirt turned to gravel, and kept walking until the trees stopped growing and the fog pulled back to reveal it sitting there like the legend described. It was supposed to be impossible to find but you found it fairly quickly, almost like it had been waiting for you.

You sit on the edge of a lavish large decorated bed, the frame creaking under your weight as you lean back and let out a long breath. The mattress is large but surprisingly clean, no dust, no stains, like someone placed it here yesterday despite the decades of rot in the wallpaper surrounding it. A small sitting table stands beside the bed with a brass oil lamp on it, the flame steady and warm, casting a circle of light that makes this stretch of corridor feel almost livable. The red carpet beneath your feet is dry here. No puddles. No slick residue. Just carpet and wood and the faint smell of old candle wax. The white candles on the walls still burn in their eternal stillness, but in this section they feel less like surveillance and more like company.

A faint golden shimmer pulses in the air three feet from the bed. A teleportation circle embedded into the floorboards, its edges glowing warm amber, humming at a frequency you can feel in your teeth more than hear with your ears. The way out. Step into it and you wake up on the porch outside, the mansion behind you, the forest trail ahead, whatever you've collected weighing down your pockets. The paper you found at the entrance said it plainly: "You may leave after 5 rooms, or you may stay. Endure each room, and be rewarded in time." Here it is, right on schedule. The circle breathes with light, expanding and contracting gently like a slow heartbeat, patient, indifferent to whether you choose it or not.

Behind you, the door you came through. Ahead, the next door, waiting at the end of this brief stretch of calm corridor. A brass number gleams on its surface covered in dust so you can't tell the number, catching the lamplight. The corridor is quiet here. Just silence and the faint hum of the circle and the creak of the bed frame and a moment to decide whether you keep going or call it a night.