Prompt of the Week - Week 169 Prompts
Added 2025-09-23 15:37:11 +0000 UTCPrompts for next week's Prompt of the Week are up. Remember to leave them in the comments below until next Friday!
Comments
Mateus is a nine-foot hulk of a Shire horse who dominates the local gym. A reindeer named Errol catches his eye, but for all the wrong reasons - the six-foot newbie has some rather generous curves that he's clearly trying to show off. The not-so-gentle giant teases the new guy a bit, completely unaware that he just picked a fight with a potion master. Just one errant glance away from his water jug before taking a huge swig, and Mateus will be growing some enormous curves of his own in no time...
ione
2025-09-24 19:26:34 +0000 UTCI don't think this qualifies as a prompt anymore. Lol. -- Imagine waking up in a body that's not your own—yanked from your dull Earth cubicle into the scaly embrace of the Sorcerer Kingdom as their revered "Queen," a title slapped onto you by some interdimensional prankster with a fetish for reptiles. your once-flat chest now swelling with subtle curves beneath iridescent scales, hips widening into a fertile sway, and that insistent, unfamiliar ache between your thighs reshaping into something potent and yours. You're a lizard now, through and through: lithe tail coiling instinctively, claws clicking against the palanquin's edge, and those glossy, heat-sensitive scales drinking in the sun like a parched desert bloom. It's the annual grand founding festival, and the city center hisses with life below—lizardfolk performers dancing through streets lined with market stalls hawking spiced insects and enchanted meats, their frilled necks flaring in rhythmic dances. You're hoisted high by a squad of elite warriors, their muscular tails lashing for balance as they strain under your colossal girth. Peering down at the throng of your scaled subjects— all kin to you now, with their mottled greens and browns and jagged crests—you spot and gasp at your reflection in a obsidian mirror held aloft by a devotee: features eerily soft for a Ssah, no razor ridges or venomous spurs, just flawlessly smooth scales in a pale, almost ghostly ivory that screams rare albinism. But oh, the star of the show is your belly—bloated to the heft of a communal home, a quivering dome of taut hide that dominates your frame like a tyrant's decree. It doesn't just sit there; it lives. Carried on those warrior shoulders, your massive midsection undulates and throbs, thin scales stretching translucent over the frenzy within. Bulges ripple like waves on a storm-tossed lagoon—clawed limbs scrabbling, tails flicking, perhaps even nascent frills unfurling in the dim, humid confines of your womb. At first, the sensation hits like a gut punch: the relentless expansion, the alien fullness that pins you in place, growing hour by hour with no mercy or pause. You, the accidental (?) transplant, want to hiss in panic, to claw your way back to human flatness and freedom. But then... it shifts. A deep, resonant churn vibrates through your core, not pain but a primal thrum, like the earth's own heartbeat syncing with yours. The writhing inside? It's not invasion—it's power. Each kick sends a jolt of electric warmth racing up your spine, flooding your veins with an intoxicating elixir that makes your scales flush and your vision sharpen. You arch involuntarily, a low, rumbling purr escaping your throat—unbidden, but right. The whispers from the crowd slither up to you amid the festival's cacophony: your Ssah kin murmur that you're incubating a clutch of wyrmlings to swell the armies, fire-breathing berserkers born of royal essence. Others flick their tongues in hushed speculation of pacts with abyssal elder gods, trading eggs for hoards of glittering gems and storm-summoning runes. Or maybe, they croon, it's the Queen's legendary fertility at play—the climax of decades an hyper-fertile bloodline turning you into a living forge of life, unstoppable and divine. Whatever the truth—and gods, you don't care anymore, because this is nirvana, a transcendence-fueled euphoria that devours all resistance—you lean into it with voracious delight. The growth surges again, a delicious pressure that arches your back and parts your jaws in an ecstatic hiss that borders on song, and suddenly you're reveling in the spectacle: the way your belly sways like a pendulum of fate, drawing chants of from the masses below. Escape? Why, when this predicament crowns you not just Queen, but goddess incarnate? Your claws trace the bulging contours, coaxing another fluttery response from within, and you laugh—a sharp, trill laugh—Let it swell forever; in this world of fangs and fire, you've found your throne, and damn if it doesn't feel like home.
There Seems To Been an Error
2025-09-24 04:40:32 +0000 UTC
