Princess Nefariti and the Naughty Sandstorm - Public

In the golden heart of ancient Egypt, where the Nile shimmered like liquid sapphire and cats were basically minor deities with attitude, lived Princess Nefariti - stunning, scandalous, and dangerously charming. With curves that could hypnotize a cobra and a stare sharper than a pharaoh’s spear, she was less of a royal figurehead and more of a national distraction.

One sultry afternoon, Nefariti strutted through the palace courtyard in her infamous white-and-gold ensemble that screamed, "I don’t need a pyramid! I am the treasure.” Her chest alone had more architecture than most of Thebes.

As she admired her reflection in an obsidian mirror (because anything less than a volcanic rock was beneath her), a sudden sandstorm whipped up out of nowhere... sent, no doubt, by an annoyed weather god who just couldn’t handle how fine she looked that day.

The gust tried to humble her, but Nefariti wasn’t having it.

"Really, Ra? A sandstorm? You’re gonna try to ruffle this hair?"

Determined to ride out the storm in style, she sauntered toward the temple, her golden jewelry jingling like seductive wind chimes. That’s when she spotted Captain Seth, her personal guard - and professional hunk - trying not to look directly at her cleavage (he failed).

"Shield me," she purred, grabbing his muscular arm and pulling him close. "With your body."

"But Your Highness...”

"Oh, shush, you’re not just here for my protection... you're also my portable eye candy.”

Lightning cracked. Somewhere, a priest fainted.

And as the storm howled around them, Princess Nefariti stood tall, chest out, hips cocked, using Captain Seth like a human umbrella and basking in the chaos like a sun goddess on holiday. Later that night, legends would whisper about how she seduced a storm and made the desert blush.

And honestly? She probably did.

Wedding Dress Scandal

In the steamy confines of St. Mischief’s church, the wedding march growled to life, and all eyes turned to Penelope slinking down the aisle. Her “dress” was a sinful tease of white lace, slashed high and plunging low, hugging her every curve like a second skin. But the real kicker? A massive golden slave collar locked around her neck, its O-ring swinging with a soft clink, begging to be claimed. She moved with a shy sway, her eyes cast down, cheeks flushed under the weight of that gleaming gold.

Rupert, the groom, stood at the altar like a king claiming his prize, his broad frame filling out his tux, a hungry glint in his eyes. The vicar, a jittery twig of a man, nearly dropped his Bible as Penelope approached. “Rupert,” he squeaked, “this, er, collar… is it part of the ceremony?”

Rupert’s grin was pure predator. “Oh, it’s essential, Father. Family tradition—her Great-Grandma wore it when she surrendered to her man, and now it’s my turn to take the reins.” He reached out, hooking a finger through the O-ring, giving it a firm tug that made Penelope gasp and stumble closer, her lips parting in a soft whimper.

The best man chuckled low. “She’s all yours, mate. That collar’s got her name on it now.”

A sudden gust ripped through the church, lifting Penelope’s dress to flash lace stockings and a garter that screamed submission.

Old Mrs. Pimm in the front row sputtered into her sherry, muttering, “Shocking!” - though her opera glasses didn’t waver. The crowd buzzed, half-thrilled, half-aghast.

The vicar, sweating bullets, rasped, “Do you, Rupert, take Penelope...”

"... to be my sweet, obedient wife?” Rupert cut in, his voice a dark velvet command.

He yanked the O-ring again, pulling her flush against him, and claimed her mouth in a kiss so fierce it left her trembling, the collar glinting as she melted into him. “That’s a yes,” he growled against her lips, not waiting for the vicar’s blessing.

The congregation erupted, cheers clashing with scandalized gasps, as Rupert’s hand slid to her waist, gripping hard.

Penelope’s eyes fluttered, submissive and dazed, while the vicar swayed on his feet, overcome.

At the reception, they say Rupert kept that leash tight, the O-ring his tether, and Penelope followed every step, collared and conquered.

Hacker Girl Vex

The hum of cooling fans filled the cramped computer room, a symphony of whirs and clicks that drowned out the world beyond its steel walls. At the center of it all sat Vex, her fingers dancing across a keyboard with a precision that bordered on artistry. Her black tank top clung to her curves, her bust straining against the fabric, but it was the glinting steel collar around her neck that caught the eye - a slave collar, a relic of her past she refused to shed.

She wasn’t alone. Rows of servers loomed like silent sentinels, their blinking lights casting a kaleidoscope of green and red across her pale skin. Vex’s eyes, sharp and unyielding, flicked between three monitors, each displaying a torrent of code. She was deep in the grid, infiltrating a corporate mainframe that thought itself untouchable. Her lips curled into a smirk as firewalls crumbled under her touch.

The collar wasn’t just decoration. It had once been a shackle, forced on her by the syndicate that owned her skills - until she’d turned their own tech against them, frying their systems and vanishing into the dark web. Now, it was a trophy, a reminder of the chains she’d broken. But tonight, it felt heavier. The job was personal: a data vault holding secrets about her missing sister.

A ping sounded - intrusion detected. They were onto her. Vex’s pulse quickened, but her hands stayed steady. She unleashed a worm she’d coded in her downtime, watching it devour their countermeasures. The screen flared with victory: files decrypted. Her sister’s name glowed in the data stream.

She yanked the drive free, tucked it into her bra, and slipped out the back, the collar cold against her skin. Freedom wasn’t free - but she’d just paid the price.