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Greginthongs

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So I was using CharGPT for normal stuff for the last month or so when I decided yesterday to see if it could engage in fetish or sexual conversation to develop scenarios. But no…it basically will not go there. Does anyone else have an interest in this? If so….what chat agent do they use?
 
Well i feel theres AI chat on here.I've gotten sent pm's that are very similar in talking and when trying to say things it get pissed . But its not a person that for sure
 
RozayTrell said:
That’s why I hardly reach out to anyone on here now or PM anyone anymore it’s gotten so bad too
Click to expand...
It’s also probably the reason I also don’t be on lit as much I came here to meet new people . I always felt like a freaky outlier so I came to meet others. Like I got 8 messages like ooooo new friends maybe all to be AI
 
Here’s what AI wrote for me so far ….

Chapter 1: The Satin Surrender

The confession came out wrong. It stumbled from my lips like a drunk leaving a bar—clumsy, slurred, impossible to take back.



“I... I wear them sometimes.”



Aunt Clara’s hand paused mid-air, a mug of tea suspended between the kettle and her lips. The kitchen clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. Ten seconds of silence stretched into an eternity.



“Wear what, sweetheart?” Her voice was soft, careful—the voice she used when my mother called crying about my father’s latest affair.



I couldn’t look at her. My eyes fixed on the linoleum floor, on the crack between two tiles that had been there since I was twelve.



“Panties,” I whispered.



The mug clinked against the counter. She set it down without drinking.



“I see.”



I braced for laughter. For disgust. For the careful, clinical speech about how some things should stay private. Instead, her hand found my chin and tilted my face up. Her eyes were warm, curious—not horrified.



“What kind?”



The question caught me off guard. “What?”



“What kind do you wear?” She pulled out a chair and sat across from me. “Lace? Cotton? Satin?”



My throat tightened. “Satin. Mostly. Sometimes... lace.”



She nodded slowly, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “And do you enjoy it?”



The word yes got trapped somewhere between my lungs and my voice box. I managed a nod.



Her smile was gentle, almost conspiratorial. “I think I can help with that.”



That was three nights ago.



Now I stand in her bedroom doorway, my hands shoved deep into my pockets, watching her arrange things on the bed. She’s laid out a black satin nightie, a matching thong, and something that looks like a silk robe. The lamp casts amber shadows across the room, turning her silver-streaked hair into threads of gold.



“Close the door,” she says without turning around.



The latch clicks. The sound seals us in.



She’s wearing a simple cotton nightgown that reaches her knees. No makeup. Her feet are bare, her toenails painted a muted rose. She pats the edge of the bed.



“Come sit.”



I obey. The mattress dips under my weight. She smells like lavender soap and something else—something warm, like vanilla left too long in the sun.



“I’ve been thinking about your confession,” she says, her hands folding in her lap. “About what you need.”



My pulse hammers against my ribs. “Aunt Clara, I—”



“Shh.” She places a finger against my lips. The touch is featherlight, electric. “Let me finish.”



I swallow. Nod.



“I think you need someone to guide you. To teach you how to embrace this without shame.” Her eyes hold mine, steady and sure. “I want to be that person. If you’ll let me.”



The room feels smaller. Tighter. The air between us thickens.



“You’d do that?”



“I would.” She reaches for my hand, her palm warm against my knuckles. “But there are rules. No secrets. No hiding. And you do exactly what I say. Understand?”



“Yes.”



“Good.” She releases my hand and stands. “Strip.”



The word hits like a slap. Clean. Direct. Unmistakable.



“Aunt Clara—”



“You heard me.” She crosses her arms, her expression unreadable. “If we’re going to do this, I need to see you. All of you. No barriers.”



My fingers fumble with my shirt buttons. One. Two. Three. The fabric slides off my shoulders, pooling on the floor. My jeans follow, then my boxers. I stand before her in nothing but skin and shame, my hands covering myself.



She clicks her tongue. “Hands at your sides.”



I drop them.



Her gaze travels down my body like she’s reading a book she already knows the ending to. She stops at my half-hard cock, her lips twitching.



“You’re nervous.”



“Yes.”



“Good.” She picks up the black thong from the bed. “Nervous means you care. Now—step into these.”



The fabric is cool against my thighs as I slide my legs through the openings. She guides the thong up my hips, her fingers brushing my skin, adjusting the waistband until it sits just right. The satin cup cradles me, soft and constricting. It feels wrong. It feels right.



“How does that feel?”



“Different.” My voice cracks. “Good different.”



She circles me slowly, her hand trailing across my shoulder blades, down my spine, resting on the small of my back. Her touch leaves trails of heat.



“The nightie next.” She lifts the black satin garment, holds it out to me. “Arms up.”



I raise my arms. The fabric slides over my head, cascading down my torso like liquid shadow. It’s shorter than I expected—barely covering my hips. The satin whispers against my skin with every breath.



She steps back, her head tilted, studying me like I’m a painting in a gallery.



“You’re beautiful.”



The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere I didn’t know existed. My eyes sting. I blink rapidly.



“I feel...” I search for the word. “Safe.”



She smiles—a real smile, not the polite one she wears at family dinners. “That’s the goal.”



She guides me to the full-length mirror in the corner of her room. I barely recognize the reflection. The man in the mirror has soft eyes and softer edges, draped in black satin, his cock tenting the fabric of the thong.



“Look at yourself,” she murmurs, her breath warm against my ear. “Look at what you are.”



I can’t look away.



“You’re a boy who likes pretty things,” she continues, her hand resting on my hip. “And that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”



Her hand slides lower, tracing the outline of my cock through the satin. I inhale sharply.



“But we have work to do,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You need to learn control. Patience. Obedience.”



Her fingers find the edge of the thong, hooking under the fabric.



“Tonight, you’re going to learn what it means to surrender.”




The satin parts. Her hand slips inside
 
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