Coming in -hurry up to chose

As I wrote earlier I'll be off for a few days, however that doesn't mean I won't be able to plan and post a few sets.
I'm thinking about 3 of them, YOU CHOSE TWO IN THE NEW POLL JUST POSTED AND THE PAIR WITH THE HIGHEST VOTES WILL BE PUBLISHED

YOU HAVE ONE DAY TO CHOSE (Friday)

1) The Lift :
yes again but this is a remainign fanasy and has been already featured in a comix, but to be honest , I love this . A large set (200pix Gold Platinum/50 Others)
Trapped Fantasy
The elevator doors close with a soft chime. You’re alone. Or so you think—until she steps in.

Tall. Tanned. Muscular. Her gym bag slung over one shoulder, a faint sheen of sweat still glistening on her skin. Her sports bra clings to sculpted abs; her leggings stretch tight over powerful thighs. The air shifts as she enters. You can smell it—her body after the gym: raw, electric, intoxicating.

The elevator hums softly as it begins its slow ascent, but the space feels tighter than usual. She doesn't stand in her corner. She turns toward you. Smirking. Then takes a step. And another. You feel your back touch the cold wall.

You’ve got nowhere to go.

She’s close now. Too close. Her breath is warm, fast. Still riding the rush of endorphins, her pupils slightly dilated, her chest rising and falling with post-workout adrenaline. Her hand comes up—casually, almost playfully—gripping the wall just beside your head. Her bicep flexes slightly as she leans in. Her voice is low, amused.

"You look nervous."

She’s towering over you. You can feel her heat, her strength. There’s no space to breathe. The elevator seems to shrink with every heartbeat.

Her thigh brushes against yours, firm and unapologetic. Her other hand lands on your shoulder—not roughly, not gently. Just…decisively.

"Don't worry," she whispers, her lips near your ear. "I won’t hurt you. Unless you want me to."

And just like that, the roles are reversed. You’re not the one who takes control here. You’re not the one with the strength, the presence, the authority.

She is.

And you’re not just okay with it.
You crave it.

2) The Milf : Manhattan Heat

You didn’t expect her. Not here. Not like this. Small set (Gold-Platinum 30, others 10)

New York is chaos—grimy subways, brutal schedules, endless noise. But then there she was, like a pause in the city’s rhythm. You met her at a coffee shop near Madison Square Park, casual, laughing at something the barista said, her sunglasses pushed into her hair.

She had that look. Not twenty-something pretty. Not trying to impress. Just radiating experience. Power. Freedom. A woman who knows exactly who she is—and makes no apology for it.

Her arms were toned, clearly sculpted by years of effort. Shoulders broad, her posture confident. She stood tall—taller than you in those heels. Her dress hugged her in all the right places: long, athletic legs, a tight waist, full chest, all held together by the effortless grace of someone who knows what effect she has.

You talked. She joked. God, she was funny. Witty in that disarming, whip-smart way that makes you feel off-balance and addicted all at once. You couldn't stop looking at her mouth when she spoke. Her lips. The lines near her eyes when she smiled.

She was a mother—she mentioned her son casually, like it wasn’t supposed to change anything. But it did. Because it added layers: maturity, sensuality, confidence. She wasn’t a girl. She was a woman. A MILF.

And not just the cliché kind—the one from cheap movies or whispered dorm fantasies. No, this was the real thing. Flesh and bone and fire.

You couldn’t stop imagining it: her body pressing yours against a hotel wall, her laughter echoing through the room, her voice low and teasing. The idea of her taking control—not because she had something to prove, but because she enjoyed it. Because you were the one being invited in—not the other way around.

And you’d follow her anywhere.
Into her apartment.
Into her bed.
Into her world.

Because when a tall, beautiful, muscular MILF in Manhattan makes you feel like you’re the boy and she’s the storm—
That’s not just attraction.

That’s paradise.

3) The Fitness Center : A large set (200pix Gold Platinum/50 Others), very diverse!

I didn’t know what I was walking into.

I’d just moved into the neighborhood and signed up at the nearest gym without thinking twice. The flyer said "Elite Strength & Aesthetics. Open 24/7. First week free." Sounded like your typical fitness center. Treadmills, weights, maybe a sauna. I didn’t even Google it.

Day one. I walk in.

And I freeze.

This... is not a normal gym.

The music is heavy, tribal, with a slow, pulsing beat. The walls are dark steel and matte black mirrors. Red neon strips line the ceiling, giving everything a surreal glow. And everywhere—everywhere—there are women.

Not just women. Amazons.

Tall. Muscular. Gorgeous.

Some are benching more than I thought was humanly possible. Others are stretching in impossibly flexible poses, their bodies glistening with sweat, long limbs taut and powerful. There’s a scent in the air—something between perfume, iron, and heat. It gets into your lungs.

I start walking toward the locker room, trying not to stare. But it's hard not to. Every corner reveals another scene.

A six-foot blonde with traps like a Greek statue is curling dumbbells next to a shorter, raven-haired beast of a woman doing hip thrusts that shake the floor. Further down, a couple is wrestling—yes, wrestling—on the mats. She’s clearly winning, pinning her boyfriend with a thigh around his neck. He’s laughing, breathless. She’s not even breaking a sweat.

There are pairs too. Duos. Not couples, exactly—but you can tell they train together. One guides the other through squats, pressing her hips forward, whispering something in her ear. Her hand lingers. The look between them is somewhere between coaching... and foreplay.

And me? I’m the new guy.
The only guy, it feels like.

95% female membership, I’d learn later. A deliberate policy. The few men who do train here are either owned, chased, or simply used as moving furniture for deadlifts and stretches.

I’d barely started warming up when she approached me.

She had short platinum hair, arms like coiled cables, and a black sports bra that barely contained anything. She looked down at me—literally—and said, “Need a spotter?”

I nodded. Because what else could I do?

She didn’t spot me.
She trained me. Dominated me. Teased me.
Her hand would occasionally "adjust" my position—on my hips, my lower back, my thighs.

Her smile?
A lioness watching her prey try to pretend it's not afraid.

And I realized something.
Every woman in this gym wasn’t just here to train.

They were here to hunt.

Remember : only Paying+ Active members above the Bronze Tier will receive the passwords, if you need to update act fast.