Title: "Sass, Strut, and Supernatural Self-Love"
0 Points
0
You want a story that’s a bit comedic, with a supernatural twist and vivid, playful character portrayals. Here you go:
---
Today started out normal. The sky was cloud-low and gray, commuters splashed through last night's puddles, and I—Nick—did all my usual stuff: the coffee run, the slog through emails at the office, and the desperate race home to catch Jeopardy with my girlfriend, Tessa.
I'd expected Tessa to be curled up on our old green couch, sporting the baggy Bowie shirt she’d swiped from me a month ago, laser-focused on Alex Trebek’s puns. Instead, as I kicked off my wet sneakers and slung my backpack onto the hall table, I heard music thumping from the bedroom—something old-school, a little funky, and way more lively than what Tessa usually listened to.
Curiosity tugged me down the hall. And there she was.
Tessa had always owned her curves with the confidence of a queen. Five-six, her fiery curls haloed around her face, wild as ever, and right now she was wearing a crimson velvet lingerie set—lace. Soft and dangerous. Hip-hugging. Her skin glowed, sprinkled with freckles. She stood in front of the full-length mirror, hands on her hips, hips cocked out, inspecting her own ass with almost scientific scrutiny.
She pursed her lips, then whistled, low and admiring. “Damn she’s got one fine ass!”
I stood, bags forgotten, mostly floored. Normally, Tessa second-guessed even her nail polish. Today she sounded like she’d just discovered her body belonged to a goddess.
She finally caught sight of me. “Hey, Nick,” she grinned, unashamed, eyes sparkling like they’d been taken over by disco lights. “Did you know your girlfriend is a solid ten?”
I blinked. “You—uh, you checking your own ass?”
Tessa winked, tossing a curl over her shoulder. “You bet. Wouldn’t you? People would pay for an ass like this.”
I stared for a beat, half-horrified and half-entranced. “You usually get shy about lingerie,” I said, still not quite believing this was her.
She did a slow twirl, catching her own eye in the mirror with a look that could melt ice. “It’s a new day, babe. Self-love, right?”
There was a kind of cockiness to her that was all wrong. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone else was driving behind her eyes. I circled around, trying to see what had changed. But everything looked—well, gloriously Tessa, if a little more exaggerated. Her hips swung. Her lips pouted.
“Tess?” I tried. “You alright?”
She turned, hands on my shoulders, her eyes narrowing with the certainty of someone addressing her court. “I am better than alright. I am radiant! I am—hold up.”
She paused, blinked three times. Her face contorted, something flickering across her freckles.
“Wait a second…” she muttered, the words coming out with an odd cadence. “What year is it?”
Now I was seriously worried. “2024, babe. Are you feeling okay?”
She squinted at me. “That book. On your dresser.”
I glanced over, confused. My grandma’s autobiography, “Jazz Baby,” lay closed beside my lamp. Tessa strode over, picked it up, and leafed through the first few pages. Her fingertips hovered over a glossy photo—a woman with a mane of red curls, a curve-accenting dress, sass radiating from her smile.
Suddenly, she laughed—a deep, old-timey chuckle I'd never heard from her before. “Would you look at that,” she whispered, pointing. The woman in the photo looked almost exactly like Tessa, only with the glamour of the Roaring Twenties.
She turned, eyes wide and a little wild. “Nick. It’s me. Or—I mean, I’m Rose. Rosalind McKay. That’s my picture.” She waggled her eyebrows. “You ever hear about the best jazz singer in St. Louis?”
It hit me like a cymbal crash. “My grandma?”
Tessa—or Rosalind?—winked. “They never did say just how good I looked in a slip. You know, back in my prime, I could turn every head in the club.”
My knees shrugged. “So… you’re possessed by my grandmother?”
She smirked, tossing the book onto the dresser. “Only for a little while, honey. It’s just that I saw myself in the mirror and had never seen a figure quite this—fabulous. Felt like stepping in and celebrating what you’ve got.”
I stared, flabbergasted and a little honored. My jazz legend grandma had come back, for just a night, into Tessa’s body, to sass and strut. No wonder she’d whistled at her own reflection.
“So,” she said, sidling up in her red lingerie, “aren’t you going to show me the city? Or are you just going to stare at me all night?”
Smiling, I reached for her hand. “I guess self-love runs in the family.”
And in a voice that was part Tessa, part Rosalind, she purred, “Damn straight.”
---
Let me know if you’d like the story to go somewhere even wilder!
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 busty and curvaceous redheaded 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: You want a story that’s a bit comedic, with a supernatural twist and vivid, playful character portrayals. Here you go: --- Today started out normal. The sky was cloud-low and gray, commuters splashed through last night's puddles, and I—Nick—did all my usual stuff: the coffee run, the slog through emails at the office, and the desperate race home to catch Jeopardy with my girlfriend, Tessa. I'd expected Tessa to be curled up on our old green couch, sporting the baggy Bowie shirt she’d swiped from me a month ago, laser-focused on Alex Trebek’s puns. Instead, as I kicked off my wet sneakers and slung my backpack onto the hall table, I heard music thumping from the bedroom—something old-school, a little funky, and way more lively than what Tessa usually listened to. Curiosity tugged me down the hall. And there she was. Tessa had always owned her curves with the confidence of a queen. Five-six, her fiery curls haloed around her face, wild as ever, and right now she was wearing a crimson velvet lingerie set—lace. Soft and dangerous. Hip-hugging. Her skin glowed, sprinkled with freckles. She stood in front of the full-length mirror, hands on her hips, hips cocked out, inspecting her own ass with almost scientific scrutiny. She pursed her lips, then whistled, low and admiring. “Damn she’s got one fine ass!” I stood, bags forgotten, mostly floored. Normally, Tessa second-guessed even her nail polish. Today she sounded like she’d just discovered her body belonged to a goddess. She finally caught sight of me. “Hey, Nick,” she grinned, unashamed, eyes sparkling like they’d been taken over by disco lights. “Did you know your girlfriend is a solid ten?” I blinked. “You—uh, you checking your own ass?” Tessa winked, tossing a curl over her shoulder. “You bet. Wouldn’t you? People would pay for an ass like this.” I stared for a beat, half-horrified and half-entranced. “You usually get shy about lingerie,” I said, still not quite believing this was her. She did a slow twirl, catching her own eye in the mirror with a look that could melt ice. “It’s a new day, babe. Self-love, right?” There was a kind of cockiness to her that was all wrong. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone else was driving behind her eyes. I circled around, trying to see what had changed. But everything looked—well, gloriously Tessa, if a little more exaggerated. Her hips swung. Her lips pouted. “Tess?” I tried. “You alright?” She turned, hands on my shoulders, her eyes narrowing with the certainty of someone addressing her court. “I am better than alright. I am radiant! I am—hold up.” She paused, blinked three times. Her face contorted, something flickering across her freckles. “Wait a second…” she muttered, the words coming out with an odd cadence. “What year is it?” Now I was seriously worried. “2024, babe. Are you feeling okay?” She squinted at me. “That book. On your dresser.” I glanced over, confused. My grandma’s autobiography, “Jazz Baby,” lay closed beside my lamp. Tessa strode over, picked it up, and leafed through the first few pages. Her fingertips hovered over a glossy photo—a woman with a mane of red curls, a curve-accenting dress, sass radiating from her smile. Suddenly, she laughed—a deep, old-timey chuckle I'd never heard from her before. “Would you look at that,” she whispered, pointing. The woman in the photo looked almost exactly like Tessa, only with the glamour of the Roaring Twenties. She turned, eyes wide and a little wild. “Nick. It’s me. Or—I mean, I’m Rose. Rosalind McKay. That’s my picture.” She waggled her eyebrows. “You ever hear about the best jazz singer in St. Louis?” It hit me like a cymbal crash. “My grandma?” Tessa—or Rosalind?—winked. “They never did say just how good I looked in a slip. You know, back in my prime, I could turn every head in the club.” My knees shrugged. “So… you’re possessed by my grandmother?” She smirked, tossing the book onto the dresser. “Only for a little while, honey. It’s just that I saw myself in the mirror and had never seen a figure quite this—fabulous. Felt like stepping in and celebrating what you’ve got.” I stared, flabbergasted and a little honored. My jazz legend grandma had come back, for just a night, into Tessa’s body, to sass and strut. No wonder she’d whistled at her own reflection. “So,” she said, sidling up in her red lingerie, “aren’t you going to show me the city? Or are you just going to stare at me all night?” Smiling, I reached for her hand. “I guess self-love runs in the family.” And in a voice that was part Tessa, part Rosalind, she purred, “Damn straight.” --- Let me know if you’d like the story to go somewhere even wilder!
Post your own comment or use AI: