Author: Amber

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

When I first saw Chrissy, she was perched on a cracked vinyl chair in a downtown laundromat. Just a thin silhouette hunched over her laundry basket, waiting for the dryer to cycle. The dim fluorescent lights flickered above her, casting a sickly glow that made her skin look sickly and almost translucent.

“Hey,” I said, sliding onto the bench opposite her. “Are you okay?” She lifted her head, looking sad. “I’m Chrissy,” she whispered. “I’m just tired of being the joke everyone laughs at.” I studied her for a moment. “Why do you think you’re a joke, babe?” She sighed, as if she had explained this at least a hundred times before. “I know I’m not the kind of girl anyone wants. I’m so tired of being the ugly neighborhood sissy who only gets hit on during last call…But if someone could make me beautiful, like a girl that rich and successful men actually want…I’ll do anything.”

Continue reading “Sissy Chrissy Gets a Makeover” →

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

I have a reputation for turning ordinary holidays into theatrical catastrophes. St. Patrick’s Day was no exception. The idea sprang from a brainstorming session with my best friend, Tayla, who declared, “You should do a striptease, Amber! Call it the Shamrock Shake!” I laughed, I blushed, and then I Googled “how to make a striptease sound Irish.” The results were…well…unhelpful, which only made the plan more appealing.

The venue was O’Malley’s, a dive bar that smelled like fried onions, stale pretzels, and optimism. The owners, two Irish twins with beards that could double as mop heads, had a St. Pat’s special. A free “Irish coffee” for anyone who could “out‑shine the leprechauns.” Tayla, ever the opportunist, whispered that the bar was desperate for a headline act that night. The twins thankfully agreed to let me headline.

Continue reading “St. Patrick’s Day Striptease” →

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

I signed up for a certification in hypnotherapy because I liked the idea of it. But then it turned into something more…something powerful. The first time a client walked into my little office on the third floor of an aging building, his eyes flickered with something I couldn’t quite name. Curiosity? Fear? Something darker?

He introduced himself as Julian and said he was a “high‑functioning” executive who’d “just needed a little help to relax.” I began the session as I’d practiced a hundred times, using a gentle voice, a slow cadence, and a suggestion to focus on the rhythm of my breathing. “Follow the pendulum with your eyes and allow yourself to relax…” He seemed happy and booked another appointment. Success!

Continue reading “Not Your Grandmother’s hypnotherapy” →

fallout roleplay

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

“Amber?” he asks. His voice is a little hoarse, as if he’s been rehearsing his lines in the mirror. “Come in,” I say, stepping aside and letting him cross the threshold into my apartment. The hallway is lined with photographs of old, cracked cityscapes. I lead him to the living room, where a single lamp casts a glow.

“I have a role for you,” I begin. “Tonight we’re not just two people. We’re the last two survivors in a fallout bunker and the world above is a radioactive wasteland. The air is thin, the lights flicker, and the only thing keeping us sane is a game of…imagination.”

Continue reading “he’s been rehearsing his lines” →

fucking

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

The first man I truly “noticed” was Mr. Harrow, the 58‑year‑old owner of the corner bakery. I would watch him knead dough with a rhythm that reminded me of a heartbeat, with his forehead creasing in concentration and his eyes flickering over the pastries as if he were measuring the stories they could tell.

I didn’t understand at the time, but the way he laughed made me feel that I was in the presence of someone who could teach me a few things. My infatuation grew, not in the shallow way of a teen crush, but more like a slow, deliberate ache. I started to linger at the bakery after school, pretending to need a croissant while really just wanting to hear the soft rustle of his cardigan as he moved. I’d catch his eye, and for a heartbeat he’d smile.

Continue reading “The first man I truly “noticed”” →

cheater

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

Today is February 13th. The eve of the great lie. And that, my darlings, is why you must spoil me. First, the obvious. Spoil me to prove you can. The florist delivers on Valentine’s Day. The cliché. But a bouquet of black calla lilies arriving today, a day early, at my door, not hers? That’s a secret. That’s power. It whispers, “I am thinking of you while I am picking out the safe, red roses for my boring wife.”

Spoil me for the silence I keep. Your wife asks how your day was and you say, “Fine. I had a long budget meeting.” You weren’t in a meeting. You were here, with the curtains drawn, tasting the expensive caviar you told her you were saving for a “special occasion with the guys.” I am the living, breathing secret you tuck into your suit pocket. Simply put, I don’t call. I don’t text at inopportune times, either. My discretion is an art form and good art is never cheap.

Continue reading “The eve of the great lie.” →

abdl humil

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

Melanie handed me the mug. “He’s yours for a while,” she whispered. “Then it’s my turn.” Ethan didn’t suspect a thing. He’d been grinning all night at the party upstairs, leering at us like we were prizes. By 10:47pm, I made sure he’d downed three drinks, all of which contained chamomile and a splash of something far more calm-inducing. He slumped against the couch shortly after he finished the third drink. What a dummy. He should have known not to accept a drink from a near-stranger.

“Let’s move him,” I said. Melanie smirked. “I bet he never suspected this would happen when he chose to go to the party.” We carried him down like a ragdoll. His protests dissolved into snores by the third step. The diaper we put him in was size XXL, which was a mocking fit for his bulky frame. Melanie held him still while I snapped the tabs. Ethan twitched once, as if he was dreaming of escape. If only he knew. lol I reached for the laxative, sweetened to taste like vanilla. He gulped it down in a bottle, oblivious to his current reality.

Continue reading “Ethan didn’t suspect a thing.” →

doctor fetish

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

Under the sterile clinic lights, wearing my favorite red dress felt like a mistake. “Amber?” A nurse called from the doorway, with a clipboard in her hand. Her smile was tight, but professional. “Dr. Lorne will see you now.”

I followed, as my heels tapped too loud against the linoleum. The exam room was cold. Paper-covered table, stirrups gleaming like instruments of some forgotten ritual. Then he walked in. Dr. Lorne. Tall. Calm. Silver watch on his left wrist…the kind that ticks just loud enough to sync with your pulse if you’re listening. He didn’t look at my chart. He looked at me. Not in a leering way. Worse. Like he already knew things.

Continue reading “wearing my favorite red dress felt like a mistake” →

vegas

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

Derek knew I wanted to go to Las Vegas. As soon as I answered his video call, he panned the camera outward. The Bellagio fountains erupted behind him, with water arcing under the cold platinum glare of floodlights. “Surprise, my little New York raindrop,” he said. His voice rumbled so low I could feel in my bones. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Think of how you looked when you came the last time I touched you.”

I didn’t close my eyes. Instead, I let the image of him fade as the fountains crescendoed, their mechanical thrum syncing with the pulse in my dripping wet pussy. When I looked back, the screen showed not his face, but his body. Drenched in sweat, naked except for the sheen of the Vegas night. His hands slowly traced the curve of his ribs, as if he were sculpting himself out of muscle and clay.

Continue reading “Derek knew I wanted to go to Las Vegas.” →

spanking

Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404

It wasn’t that short, I told myself. Just daring. Besides, it’s my favorite skirt. There’s no harm in wearing it! Boy, was I ever wrong. Daddy found me by the front door just as I was about to leave for school. “Amber. Dorothy. Tomsin.” He reserved stating my full name for only two reasons, one of which was when he wanted the room to chill.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” he said, as he gestured to the skirt. “You think dressing like a whore is armor? It makes you a target.” I crossed my arms and rolled my eyes. “It’s my body, Daddy!” He sighed. “That’s what they all say.” I looked directly at him, feeling the anger building inside of me. “Haven’t I outgrown your hemline lectures by now?” Daddy’s eyes, tired and grim, locked with mine. “Get upstairs.”

Continue reading “my favorite skirt” →