"Identity Swap: The Mother-MILF Dilemma"
0 Points
0
Absolutely! Here’s a science fiction story with fully fleshed-out characters and dynamic dialogue:
---
When whatever-the-hell caused the whole "swapocalypse" went down last Friday, I honestly thought the weirdest things I'd see would be Dad driving the mail van and the town librarian cussing out the mayor from behind the wheel of a skateboard. But that was before I discovered Travis—my best friend since kindergarten—was now occupying my mother’s body, and loving every second of it.
Today, I’m marching up the cracked walkway to Mom’s (Travis’s?) house, fists balled and pulse pounding with a hot fog of embarrassment and rage.
The door swings open before I even knock, and there’s Travis, grinning, all five-foot-eight of him—except now that means green eyes, a thick cascade of red hair, and the sort of hourglass figure you see in pop-up ads. He’s wearing a silk robe and fuzzy slippers and holding a steaming mug with “#MOMLIFE” scrawled on the side.
“Heyyyyy, Jules!” he chirps, in my mom’s voice. “Come to see your old best bro—or should I say, MILF-in-the-making?”
“Jesus fuck, Travis,” I hiss, pushing past him into the living room. The scent of cinnamon candles and drugstore perfume assaults me. On the sofa is a pile of lingerie—lace, velvet, more silk—like a Victoria’s Secret exploded in here. “I told you to stop that Instagram shit.”
He shuts the door. “First off, my name’s Tori now. Second, why would I stop? I gained thirteen thousand followers just last night. The DMs! Jules, you wouldn’t believe the things people want to buy from me. Feet pics. Panties. Hell, one guy wants a lock of my hair.”
“That’s my mother’s hair!” I practically scream. “It’s not yours to sell!”
Travis—Tori—sashays over to the phone on a tripod. “Look, the ‘old me’ is probably lying on your sofa binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy and eating ice cream straight from the tub. Why not let me have fun with this? You know how long it’s been since I
This story was generated by user zach3 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: When a strange occurrence caused people to swap bodies across town I was angry that my friend had swapped bodies with my mom. He started an Instagram account where he wears sexy outfits and lingerie. I’m going over to his place to yell at him about it. I’m not sure he’s going to care though. He loves all his new followers and he doesn’t want to stop the account, he says it’s his body now and he wants to show it off. God this is weird. He always leaves captions about his big tits or his curvy ass. mom is a redhead with a curvaceous and busty figure. Most of the posts he makes are of him wearing lingerie or bikinis. Write the story with good dialogue with some swearing. Also give the characters names and use good descriptions.
Response: Absolutely! Here’s a science fiction story with fully fleshed-out characters and dynamic dialogue: --- When whatever-the-hell caused the whole "swapocalypse" went down last Friday, I honestly thought the weirdest things I'd see would be Dad driving the mail van and the town librarian cussing out the mayor from behind the wheel of a skateboard. But that was before I discovered Travis—my best friend since kindergarten—was now occupying my mother’s body, and loving every second of it. Today, I’m marching up the cracked walkway to Mom’s (Travis’s?) house, fists balled and pulse pounding with a hot fog of embarrassment and rage. The door swings open before I even knock, and there’s Travis, grinning, all five-foot-eight of him—except now that means green eyes, a thick cascade of red hair, and the sort of hourglass figure you see in pop-up ads. He’s wearing a silk robe and fuzzy slippers and holding a steaming mug with “#MOMLIFE” scrawled on the side. “Heyyyyy, Jules!” he chirps, in my mom’s voice. “Come to see your old best bro—or should I say, MILF-in-the-making?” “Jesus fuck, Travis,” I hiss, pushing past him into the living room. The scent of cinnamon candles and drugstore perfume assaults me. On the sofa is a pile of lingerie—lace, velvet, more silk—like a Victoria’s Secret exploded in here. “I told you to stop that Instagram shit.” He shuts the door. “First off, my name’s Tori now. Second, why would I stop? I gained thirteen thousand followers just last night. The DMs! Jules, you wouldn’t believe the things people want to buy from me. Feet pics. Panties. Hell, one guy wants a lock of my hair.” “That’s my mother’s hair!” I practically scream. “It’s not yours to sell!” Travis—Tori—sashays over to the phone on a tripod. “Look, the ‘old me’ is probably lying on your sofa binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy and eating ice cream straight from the tub. Why not let me have fun with this? You know how long it’s been since I
Post your own comment or use AI: