"The Songstress in Burgundy: A Monday Identity Swap"
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Sure! Here’s a short story based on your prompt:
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I’d always thought Mondays were just a prelude to monotony, but stepping through my apartment door tonight made me rethink everything.
The living room was awash in buttery sunset light, glinting off the framed prints on the wall and the trailing leaves of Iris’s beloved monstera plant. I’d dropped my bag by the hall bench when I heard her voice from the bedroom:
“Damn she’s got one fine ass.”
That wasn’t how Iris talked—she was clever, yes, but never so brash. Curious and half amused, I poked my head inside.
My girlfriend, Iris Lee, stood in front of her full-length mirror, dressed in deep burgundy lingerie, her cascading black hair catching the light. She appraised her own reflection with the intensity usually reserved for the final rounds of Project Runway, hands on her hips as she twisted to check herself out.
“Uh...” I started, hesitating.
She turned to me, her usual soft brown gaze startlingly sharper, a wicked smirk on her lips.
“Derek, tell me you agree,” she drawled, “Whoever blessed this woman with those curves deserves a raise.”
I blinked. Iris wasn’t shy, but she usually feigned modesty—especially about her body. This wasn’t her. Something was off, like a song playing in a slightly wrong key.
“That’s... definitely your ass,” I managed, unsure whether to play along. “You feeling okay?”
She sauntered over, hips swaying, fixing me with a predatory look. “Never felt better. Like, I finally get it—this is what all those songs are about. Juicy jeans, peaches, whatever.”
I laughed nervously. “Are you—uh, sure you’re Iris?”
She leaned closer, eyes glittering. “Would Iris ever say, ‘Someone better stop me before I take myself out to dinner’?”
I shook my head. “No. She’d ask if her butt looked too big and worry if her eyeliner was uneven.”
Iris—or whoever she was—threw back her head and cackled. “Honey, I am living. But you know what’s even wilder?”
She spun in a circle and flopped onto the bed. “I’m not alone in here.”
My heart stuttered. “What do you mean?”
She sat up, voice dropping conspiratorially. “You ever hear about Melina? Yeah, I know, not unless you studied 1960s soul music. Your sweet little girlfriend picked up a vintage Bobbie Melina record today, played it on your old turntable. Turns out, all these years later, Melina’s looking for a comeback.”
She winked.
“Through me.”
A shiver ran through me as I remembered Iris’s excited text about the record she’d found at the thrift shop. Melina was a singer whose voice sparked revolutions—and whose tragic death was still a music industry mystery.
Iris stretched, her movements theatrical, and the room’s lights flickered. “You know what? I like this body. And you seem alright, too, baby.”
I was gaping.
“Melina,” I asked slowly, “Is it you?”
She grinned, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “For now, sugar. Might not stick around long. But let’s celebrate. Iris has a bombshell wardrobe, and you owe her a drink. Or me, I guess.”
I laughed, the weirdness of it all mingling with a rush of fascination. “Alright, Melina. I’ll trust you—for tonight.”
I watched her strut to the kitchen, humming a jazzy tune that definitely wasn’t Iris’s style, and wondered how I’d ever explain this to anyone. Maybe some Mondays really are magical after all.
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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: Today started out normal but when I got home and saw my girlfriend in lingerie looking at her own ass in the mirror, I thought she was going to ask me if it was to big. But she stared at it and let out a whistle and said “damn she’s got one fine ass.” I think someone possessed her. Write the story with descriptive dialogue and be very descriptive with the characters. Give them names and write a surprise with who possesses her.
Response: Sure! Here’s a short story based on your prompt: --- I’d always thought Mondays were just a prelude to monotony, but stepping through my apartment door tonight made me rethink everything. The living room was awash in buttery sunset light, glinting off the framed prints on the wall and the trailing leaves of Iris’s beloved monstera plant. I’d dropped my bag by the hall bench when I heard her voice from the bedroom: “Damn she’s got one fine ass.” That wasn’t how Iris talked—she was clever, yes, but never so brash. Curious and half amused, I poked my head inside. My girlfriend, Iris Lee, stood in front of her full-length mirror, dressed in deep burgundy lingerie, her cascading black hair catching the light. She appraised her own reflection with the intensity usually reserved for the final rounds of Project Runway, hands on her hips as she twisted to check herself out. “Uh...” I started, hesitating. She turned to me, her usual soft brown gaze startlingly sharper, a wicked smirk on her lips. “Derek, tell me you agree,” she drawled, “Whoever blessed this woman with those curves deserves a raise.” I blinked. Iris wasn’t shy, but she usually feigned modesty—especially about her body. This wasn’t her. Something was off, like a song playing in a slightly wrong key. “That’s... definitely your ass,” I managed, unsure whether to play along. “You feeling okay?” She sauntered over, hips swaying, fixing me with a predatory look. “Never felt better. Like, I finally get it—this is what all those songs are about. Juicy jeans, peaches, whatever.” I laughed nervously. “Are you—uh, sure you’re Iris?” She leaned closer, eyes glittering. “Would Iris ever say, ‘Someone better stop me before I take myself out to dinner’?” I shook my head. “No. She’d ask if her butt looked too big and worry if her eyeliner was uneven.” Iris—or whoever she was—threw back her head and cackled. “Honey, I am living. But you know what’s even wilder?” She spun in a circle and flopped onto the bed. “I’m not alone in here.” My heart stuttered. “What do you mean?” She sat up, voice dropping conspiratorially. “You ever hear about Melina? Yeah, I know, not unless you studied 1960s soul music. Your sweet little girlfriend picked up a vintage Bobbie Melina record today, played it on your old turntable. Turns out, all these years later, Melina’s looking for a comeback.” She winked. “Through me.” A shiver ran through me as I remembered Iris’s excited text about the record she’d found at the thrift shop. Melina was a singer whose voice sparked revolutions—and whose tragic death was still a music industry mystery. Iris stretched, her movements theatrical, and the room’s lights flickered. “You know what? I like this body. And you seem alright, too, baby.” I was gaping. “Melina,” I asked slowly, “Is it you?” She grinned, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “For now, sugar. Might not stick around long. But let’s celebrate. Iris has a bombshell wardrobe, and you owe her a drink. Or me, I guess.” I laughed, the weirdness of it all mingling with a rush of fascination. “Alright, Melina. I’ll trust you—for tonight.” I watched her strut to the kitchen, humming a jazzy tune that definitely wasn’t Iris’s style, and wondered how I’d ever explain this to anyone. Maybe some Mondays really are magical after all. ---
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