The House Where We All Wake up Naked

 I'm glad to say I have another full-blown novelette for you today, a nice good story involving a haunted house of evil that steals and eats people's clothing and traps them inside to embarrass them and feeds on their humiliation. I feel it's a good story for Halloween so I hope you will enjoy this. And the illustrations I thought came out really well so I hope they all post successfully, I even illustrated that last scene that was just implied, you'll see what I mean at the end! This involves embarrassed nude male and female, only ones naked, and naked in public. I also included two of the illustrations that didn't give me what I wanted but I still thought they were good CFNM pictures so I figure I will share them too.

The House Where We All Wake up Naked
Wayne's knuckles were white around the Styrofoam cup. Coffee sloshed onto the picnic table as he gestured wildly. "A house that eats clothes? Seriously, Wendy? That's the stupidest thing I've heard since Paul tried to convince us that kombucha cleans silverware." He snorted, wiping brown droplets off his faded jeans. Across the table, Wendy rolled her eyes, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Her phone screen glowed with the forwarded text message. "It's from Marcus," she insisted. "He swears it happened to his cousin's roommate's ex. Twice."
    Paul leaned forward, elbows denting the cheap plastic tablecloth. His grin was wide, infectious. "Think of the bragging rights! We'd be legends. 'Remember that time we dared the nudist ghost house?'" Amanda, tucked under his arm, wrinkled her nose. Her sensible flats tapped impatiently beneath the bench. "Ghosts don't eat fabric, Paul. And I'm not sleeping on some moldy floorboard just because Marcus heard a spooky story at a kegger." She snatched the phone from Wendy's hand, scrolling skeptically. "Besides, abandoned houses usually mean rats. Or worse, asbestos."
    Marcus himself arrived then, breathless, clutching a bulging plastic bag. Sweat plastered his shirt to his chest. "Changed your minds yet?" he panted, dropping the bag onto the table. Inside, four furry shapes squirmed against the translucent plastic. Two sleek Siamese cats blinked balefully; a fluffy Pomeranian yapped once; a fat tabby just yawned. "Temporary pets," Marcus announced, wiping his brow. "Proof of concept. If the house eats collars and sweaters off living things... well, you'll see." He jabbed a finger at Wayne. "You'll be red-faced begging me for your dignity back by sunrise." Wayne just laughed, reaching into the bag to scratch the tabby behind its ears. The cat purred, a deep rumble vibrating against Wayne's fingers. "Deal," Wayne said. "But when nothing happens, you're buying breakfast. Pancakes. With extra bacon." Marcus shook his head slowly, a strange, almost pitying look in his eyes. "Oh, Wayne," he sighed. "You have no idea." The Pomeranian whimpered, pressing its nose against the plastic.
    The house wasn't just abandoned; it felt *forgotten*. Squatting beneath ancient oaks, its peeling clapboard siding was the colour of dried bone. Every window was a dark, shattered eye socket. Amanda hesitated at the crumbling porch steps, clutching Paul's arm. "This feels... invasive," she whispered. Paul squeezed her hand, his usual grin strained. "Think of it as... urban archaeology. With nudity." Inside, the air hung thick and still, smelling of damp earth and something vaguely sweet, like rotten apples. Dust motes danced furieusement in the weak beams from their flashlights. They chose the least derelict room – a front parlour with a surprisingly intact, though threadbare, Persian rug. Marcus deposited the pet carrier carefully in the centre, unzipping it. The cats flowed out silently, tails high, exploring the shadows. The Pomeranian stayed put, trembling. "Okay," Wendy declared, placing her backpack down with finality. "Clothes stay on *until* sleep. Then... we'll see what happens." Her voice echoed slightly in the cavernous space. Wayne snorted again, pulling a six-pack of cheap beer from his own bag. "Sleep? Tonight? Fat chance." He cracked one open, the hiss unnaturally loud. "Let's see how long we can stay awake telling ghost stories." He took a long swig, his eyes scanning the dark corners where the cats had vanished.
    The jokes started immediately, brittle and loud. Paul recounted the infamous "naked camping trip" that ended with poison ivy in unmentionable places. Amanda countered with her cousin's disastrous skinny-dipping incident involving leeches. They laughed too hard, voices bouncing off the plaster walls. Wayne kept glancing at Wendy, then away quickly. They'd been dating six months; he knew the curve of her shoulder under her shirt, the feel of her hip beneath denim, but never the whole landscape. The thought of seeing her bare skin here, in this oppressive gloom, felt wrong. Intimate, yes, but charged with an unsettling vulnerability. Wendy caught his look and offered a small, nervous smile. "Don't worry," she murmured, leaning close enough for him to smell her shampoo. "If the house *does* eat clothes... maybe it'll start with Paul's hideous socks." Paul protested loudly, kicking off a sneaker to dramatically display his neon-green sock. Laughter erupted again, fraying at the edges. They passed beers, told more stories, strained ears for phantom sounds. The cats prowled unseen. The Pomeranian whined softly.
    The heaviness crept in like fog. One moment Wayne was arguing passionately about the best pizza topping (pineapple, obviously), the next, his eyelids felt like lead weights. He blinked, trying to focus on Paul's face, but the features blurred. Wendy slumped against his shoulder, her breathing deepening instantly. Across the rug, Amanda was already curled against Paul, her head on his lap, utterly still. Paul mumbled something incoherent, his head lolling back against the peeling wallpaper, eyes closed. Wayne fought it, the unnatural pull towards unconsciousness. It wasn't tiredness; it was an overwhelming, velvet suffocation. His flashlight slipped from his fingers, clattering softly on the rug. The beam illuminated dust swirling in the sudden stillness. The last thing he registered, before the darkness swallowed him whole, was the faintest scent of ozone layered over the rot, and the unsettling silence of the cats. No purrs. No rustling. Just... watchful stillness. Then, nothing.
    A collective gasp tore through the stale air, sharp as shattered glass. Wayne snapped awake, a violent jolt running through him. His skull throbbed with a dull ache, the kind that followed cheap beer and terrible decisions. He blinked against the weak grey light filtering through the boarded windows. Something was profoundly *wrong*. A draft, cool and insistent, brushed against skin where skin shouldn't be exposed. He looked down. His familiar faded jeans? Gone. The worn Metallica t-shirt? Vanished. Panic, cold and absolute, seized him. He scrambled backwards on the rug, bare legs scraping rough wool, instinctively curling into a ball, arms crossed tightly over his chest. "Holy shit!" The words ripped from his throat, raw and terrified.
    The gasp hadn't been his alone. Around him, chaos erupted. Wendy sat bolt upright beside him, her eyes wide with pure horror. Her hands flew to her chest, then frantically downwards, her mouth a perfect 'O' of disbelief. "NO!" she shrieked, scrambling backwards until she hit the wall, pulling her knees up tightly. Across the room, Paul jerked awake, confusion twisting into utter panic as he registered the chill air on his bare skin. He yelled, a wordless bellow of shock, twisting violently to shield himself, knocking Amanda sideways. Amanda, already awake and trembling violently, didn't scream immediately. She stared down at her own nakedness, her face draining of all color. Her hands trembled as they hovered uselessly over her lap, her eyes wide and unseeing for a terrifying second before a low, keening whine escaped her lips. "Where...?" she choked out, unable to finish the sentence. The Persian rug felt impossibly coarse against bare skin. The room, oppressive before, now felt like a vast, freezing cage.
    Marcus! Wayne’s frantic gaze darted to the pet carrier. Empty. The cats, the Pomeranian… vanished without a trace. Only Marcus remained, sitting slumped against the opposite wall. He wasn't scrambling or screaming. He was staring straight ahead, his face utterly blank, devoid of panic or surprise. His clothes, Wayne realized with a fresh wave of nausea, were also gone. But Marcus just sat there, naked and motionless, staring into the dusty gloom with vacant eyes. A single tear tracked a clean line through the grime on his cheek. He didn't move to cover himself. He didn't react to the frantic scrambling, the sharp cries, the desperate attempts at modesty happening mere feet away. He just stared, unblinking, into the darkness of the hallway beyond the parlour doorway, as if seeing something the rest of them couldn't. His utter stillness was more terrifying than any scream.
    "Don't look! DON'T LOOK AT ME!" Wendy shrieked, her voice cracking with raw panic. She pressed herself harder against the peeling wallpaper, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped fiercely around herself, trying to shrink into nothingness. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners. "Turn around! All of you! Turn around RIGHT NOW!" Yet, beneath the frantic trembling and the genuine terror etched on her face, Wayne caught it. A flicker. Her tightly shut eyes snapped open for a fraction of a second, darting downwards towards Paul, who was scrambling backwards on his elbows, trying desperately to shield his groin with trembling hands. A faint, involuntary flush crept up Wendy’s neck. Before Wayne could process it, her eyes squeezed shut again, her pleas intensifying. "Amanda, cover me! Please!" Amanda, frozen in her own shock, whimpered, unable to move.
    Paul, finally managing to grab his discarded backpack and clumsily jam it over his lap, noticed it too. He saw Wendy’s brief, wide-eyed glance flicker towards Wayne, who was curling into a tight ball, his own hands clamped protectively over himself. Despite the bone-deep chill and the paralyzing fear, a shaky, incredulous grin spread across Paul’s face. "Seriously, Wendy?" he choked out, his voice thick with disbelief and a hint of dark amusement. "Now? You're checking us out *now*?" He gestured weakly with his free hand towards Wayne’s hunched form. "Enjoying the view?" Wayne’s head snapped up, his face a mask of horrified embarrassment mixed with the lingering terror. He met Wendy’s gaze just as her eyes flew open again, wide with mortification this time.
    "Shut UP, Paul!" Wendy screamed, her voice raw. The flush bloomed crimson across her face and chest, clashing violently with the pallor of fear. She tried to burrow deeper into the corner. "I wasn't! I swear I wasn't looking!" But the denial rang hollow, drowned out by the frantic pounding of her own heart and Paul’s strained chuckle. Her gaze, despite her frantic protests, darted again, almost magnetically, towards the patch of bare skin Wayne couldn't quite cover with his hands and knees. The absurdity of it – the utter violation mixed with this bizarre, unwanted flicker of primal awareness – hung thick and suffocating in the cold, dusty air, worse than the lingering scent of rotten apples. Marcus remained silent, staring into the void, oblivious to the frantic scramble for dignity happening around him. The Persian rug felt like sandpaper against Wayne’s bare skin.
    Amanda whimpered, a low, desperate sound trapped in her throat. Her hands pressed futilely against her breasts, fingers digging into soft flesh as she tried to flatten herself. She crossed her legs tightly, ankles locked, knees pressed together, twisting her torso sideways in a frantic attempt to shrink her silhouette. But her generous curves defied concealment; every shift only seemed to emphasize what she desperately tried to hide. Her elbows dug into her ribs, her shoulders hunched forward painfully, trying to shield her chest, but the movement only exposed more of her back. The chill air prickled her skin everywhere. "Marcus!" she choked out, her voice trembling. She twisted her head towards him, eyes wide with pleading terror. "Marcus, what *is* this? What did you *do*?" Her voice cracked on the last word. Marcus slowly turned his head, his vacant eyes focusing on her with immense effort. A strange, shaky smile twitched at the corners of his lips. He let out a sound – a dry, rasping chuckle that held no humor, only frayed nerves and something chillingly close to despair. "Do?" he echoed, the chuckle dissolving into a cough. "I didn't... *do* anything." He gestured vaguely towards the empty pet carrier, then towards the dark hallway. "It just... happens. Like last time." His voice was flat, devoid of conviction. The nervous laughter bubbled up again, brittle and unconvincing. "See? Proof." He sounded utterly lost.
    Paul, still clutching the backpack over his lap, scooted closer to Amanda, trying awkwardly to shield her with his own body, his movements stiff and embarrassed. "Okay, panic later," he barked, his voice tight but trying for command. "Clothes. Where the hell are our clothes?" He scanned the dusty rug, the peeling wallpaper, the shadowed corners where the cats had vanished. Nothing. Not a scrap of denim, not a thread of cotton. Only dust motes swirling in the weak grey light filtering through the boarded windows. The emptiness was absolute. Wayne forced himself to uncurl slightly, his own panic momentarily overridden by Paul’s practical question. He scanned the room with desperate intensity. The backpack Paul held was his own. He’d dropped it when he fell asleep. He lunged forward, grabbing it, ignoring Wendy’s sharp gasp beside him. He ripped the zipper open, plunging his hand inside. His fingers brushed crumpled paper – probably the map – then the cool metal of his flashlight. He dug deeper, past spare batteries, past a half-eaten granola bar. Nothing soft. No fabric. The clothes that had been *in* the bag were gone too. A fresh wave of cold dread washed over him. "They're gone," he whispered, the words barely audible. "Everything. Even what was packed." He looked up, meeting Paul’s horrified stare. The implications settled like ice in their guts. This wasn't just theft. This was consumption. The house had digested their belongings.
    The silence that followed was profound. Even Wendy stopped her frantic pleading. Amanda’s whimpers choked off into terrified silence. Only Marcus remained unchanged, his gaze drifting back towards the dark hallway, his tear-streaked face impassive. The oppressive stillness of the house pressed in, thick and heavy. The faint smell of rotten apples seemed stronger now, mixed with something else… something metallic and sharp, like old blood. The boarded windows offered no escape. The front door, visible through the parlour archway, seemed miles away across the expanse of bare, freezing floorboards. Wayne’s gaze followed Marcus’s, drawn inexorably towards the deeper darkness of the hallway. What had Marcus seen? What was waiting? The forgotten house held its breath. Outside, the ancient oaks groaned softly in a wind they couldn’t feel inside.
    Marcus finally stirred, a slow, painful unfolding. He wiped the tear track with the back of his hand, smearing grime. "We can't leave," he said, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. It wasn't a statement; it was a verdict. "Not yet." Amanda flinched as if struck. "What do you mean, *can't leave*?" Her voice was a high-pitched whisper, trembling with disbelief. "Marcus, unlock the door! Right now!" Her trembling finger pointed towards the front entrance, her nakedness momentarily forgotten in the surge of panic. Paul lurched forward, abandoning his backpack-shield. "Yeah, Marcus! Enough of this bullshit! Where's the goddamn key?" He took an angry step towards the door, then froze, realizing his exposure, his hands instinctively flying downwards again. "Just open it!"
    Marcus didn’t move. He looked at Paul, then Amanda, then Wayne and Wendy huddled against the wall. A strange pity flickered in his vacant eyes. "There is no key," he murmured. "Not for us. Not anymore." He took a shuddering breath. "I came here… last week. Alone. Dared myself." He gestured weakly towards the empty pet carrier. "It took my clothes. Like it took yours. Like it took theirs." He nodded towards the hallway. "And then… it whispered." Wendy gasped. "Whispered? Marcus, what are you *talking* about?" Marcus ignored her, his gaze distant again. "It said… I could go. If… if I brought others. If they stayed. Took my place." He finally met Wayne’s horrified stare. "I didn’t want to believe it. Thought I was losing it. But…" He gestured helplessly around the bare room, at their nakedness, at the locked emptiness. "Here we are."
    "You brought us here… to trap us?" Wayne’s voice was low, dangerous, the cold dread hardening into fury. "So *you* could get your clothes back?" Marcus flinched, a flicker of shame crossing his face before the blankness returned. "It said… it said it needed… occupants. New ones." Amanda started sobbing, deep, wracking cries. "You *monster*!" Wendy hissed, pressing herself harder into the wall. Paul acted. Ignoring his nakedness, fueled by rage and terror, he lunged towards the front door. His bare feet slapped loudly on the dusty floorboards. He grabbed the tarnished brass knob, twisted, and pulled. Nothing. He rattled it violently, the sound echoing like gunshots in the silence. "Locked! Solid!" He spun, eyes wild, scanning the boarded windows. He ran to the nearest one, fingers scrabbling at the thick, weathered planks nailed securely over the frame. "Boarded shut! All of them!" He kicked the wall beneath the window, a futile thud. "Fuck!" Outside, the weak grey light mocked them. The thought of someone – anyone – walking past and seeing them trapped, exposed, behind those boarded windows was a fresh horror. Paul scrambled back towards the centre of the rug, away from the windows, his chest heaving. "We're fucking trapped," he breathed, the reality settling like a death sentence. Marcus just stared at the hallway, whispering, "It promised… it promised." His vacant eyes held no hope, only a terrible, hollow acceptance. The forgotten house had found new occupants. The silence deepened, thick with dread and the faint, metallic tang of fear.
    Wendy’s face burned crimson, a stark contrast to the pallor of terror. She pressed her forehead against the peeling wallpaper, eyes squeezed shut. "Stop looking!" she pleaded, her voice muffled, thick with tears. "All of you! Turn around! Please!" Yet, despite the frantic trembling and her desperate cries, Wayne saw it again. Her tightly shut eyes snapped open, darting downwards towards Paul’s lean torso, then flickering sideways towards Wayne’s own hunched form. Her gaze lingered for a fraction of a second too long on the taut muscles of Wayne’s thighs, exposed as he tried to curl tighter. A flush deepened across her collarbone. Before she could wrench her eyes away, Paul snorted. "Seriously, Wendy?" His voice was rough, strained, but laced with dark amusement. He gestured pointedly at Wayne. "You’re practically staring holes in him! Hypocrite much?" Wayne’s head jerked up, his own face flushing hotly with embarrassment and confusion. He met Wendy’s wide, mortified eyes.
    "Shut UP, Paul!" Wendy screamed, recoiling as if struck. The blush spread like wildfire down her neck and across her chest, clashing violently with her terror. "I wasn't! I swear!" But the denial was weak, drowned out by her frantic heartbeat and Paul’s bitter chuckle. Her gaze, despite her frantic protests, betrayed her again. It flickered back towards Wayne, drawn almost helplessly to the bare expanse of his shoulder, the line of his jaw clenched tight. The sheer absurdity cut through the terror – the violation, the freezing air, the impossible trap, yet this unwanted, electric awareness humming beneath her skin. She hated it. She hated herself for it. But the undeniable truth was there: the raw exposure, the forbidden vulnerability, the sheer *presence* of the others stripped bare… it ignited a terrifying, illicit spark deep within her panic. She squeezed her eyes shut again, trying to vanish. "Amanda! Help me!" she begged, her voice cracking. Amanda could only sob harder, lost in her own despair. Marcus stared blankly towards the hallway, oblivious. The Persian rug scratched Wayne’s skin, a constant, abrasive reminder of their impossible situation.
    Paul slammed his fist against the peeling wallpaper, the impact echoing dully. "Okay! Panic party's over!" he barked, his voice cracking with forced command. He pointed a trembling finger at Marcus. "You! Talk! What whispers? How long? What does it *want*?" Marcus flinched, his vacant eyes slowly focusing on Paul with immense effort. He opened his mouth, closed it, then whispered, "It… it doesn't speak words. Not really. More like… thoughts. Feelings. Hunger." He shuddered violently. "It’s old. So old. And it’s… awake now. It wants… warmth. Life. It wants us… to stay." He gestured weakly towards the hallway. "It’s waiting." The implication hung heavy in the frigid air. Waiting for what? The silence pressed in, broken only by Amanda’s choked sobs and Wendy’s ragged breathing. The faint scent of rotten apples seemed stronger now, cloying, mixed with that metallic tang. Wayne stared at the dark hallway entrance, his skin crawling. Marcus had seen something there. Something that broke him. Something waiting for them. The forgotten house held its breath. Outside, the wind moaned through the ancient oaks, a sound they couldn’t hear inside their frozen cage.
    "Stop looking!" Wendy pleaded again, her voice raw and desperate. She pressed her forehead hard against the cold wallpaper, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped fiercely around herself. "Turn around! All of you!" Her knuckles were white where she gripped her own elbows, trying to shrink her slender frame into invisibility.
    "For Christ's sake, Wendy!" Amanda's voice cracked, high-pitched and hysterical. She uncurled slightly, her tear-streaked face twisting in frustrated misery. Her hands fluttered uselessly – one trying to shield her heavy breasts, the other pressed flat against her rounded hip. "I am in a *way* worse situation than you!" The effort was futile. Her generous curves defied concealment; every shift only seemed to emphasize what she desperately tried to hide. She hunched forward, trying to fold in on herself, but the movement only pushed her cleavage higher. Her small hands, delicate and fine-boned, looked absurdly inadequate against the lush landscape of her own body. She attempted to cover her lap, but her thighs felt impossibly thick and exposed. "I can't… I can't cover *anything*!" she wailed, her voice thick with humiliation. Walking felt impossible; every tentative shuffle forward felt awkward and obscene, her body swaying heavily without the anchor of clothing.
    Paul couldn't help it. Despite the terror, the freezing air, the sheer impossibility of their situation, a shaky, involuntary grin spread across his face as he watched Amanda’s frantic, clumsy attempts. Wayne’s gaze, too, flickered towards her, drawn by the movement, a flicker of stunned appreciation momentarily displacing his fear. Amanda saw them looking. Her cheeks flushed crimson. "Stop staring!" she shrieked, twisting violently away. The sudden turn made her stumble slightly on the coarse rug, her body jiggling alarmingly. She caught herself against the wall, breathing hard, mortification warring with terror. Her small hands pressed uselessly against the wall, failing completely to shield her nakedness. Marcus remained oblivious, staring into the hallway's gloom, whispering fragments of the house's hunger. The Persian rug felt like sandpaper. The boarded windows offered no escape. The metallic scent sharpened. Something shifted in the deep shadows of the hallway – a suggestion of movement, a deepening of the dark. Marcus whimpered softly. "It’s coming," he breathed. The forgotten house exhaled.
    Wayne felt the chill intensify, a cold draft swirling around his legs. He instinctively shifted his weight, trying to curl tighter, protect himself. That's when he noticed it. A distinct, undeniable stiffness pressing against his inner thigh. He froze. His gaze snapped downwards in horror. Oh god. No. Not now. Not *here*. He clamped his knees together fiercely, heat flooding his face. He risked a sideways glance at Paul. Paul was staring fixedly at the boarded window, jaw clenched, but his posture was rigidly unnatural. He was subtly shifting his hips, trying to angle himself away from the group. A thick, unmistakable ridge pressed against the taut skin below his navel. Wayne’s stomach lurched. This couldn't be happening. Not trapped, naked, terrified in this cursed house. Yet, the primal reflex, triggered by proximity and adrenaline and the sheer, overwhelming vulnerability, was undeniable. Biology betrayed them utterly. Wayne squeezed his eyes shut, praying for invisibility.
    Wendy’s terrified whimpers choked off abruptly. Her wide eyes, darting between Wayne’s frantic curling and Paul’s awkward hip-shift, widened further. Then, a strangled sound escaped her lips. It wasn't a sob. It was a shocked, involuntary bubble of laughter. She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes bulging, but it was too late. Amanda, tears still streaming, followed Wendy’s gaze. Her eyes landed on Paul’s straining erection, then flicked to Wayne’s obvious discomfort. A gasp escaped her, followed by a hiccup that dissolved into a high-pitched, incredulous giggle. "Oh my god," Amanda choked out, pointing a trembling finger directly at Paul’s groin. "Look at you two!" Wendy dropped her hand, unable to contain it anymore. A burst of hysterical, high-pitched laughter erupted from her. "They’re… they’re pitching tents!" she shrieked, pointing wildly between Wayne and Paul. "Seriously? NOW?!"
    Paul’s head snapped around, his face flushing from pale terror to deep, mortified crimson. He instinctively hunched forward, trying to shield himself with his hands. "Shut UP!" he roared, his voice cracking with embarrassment. "It’s… involuntary! Reflex!" Wayne buried his face in his knees, groaning. "Christ, Wendy! Stop pointing!" Marcus finally tore his gaze from the hallway, blinking slowly at the commotion. His vacant eyes registered the scene – the laughing, pointing women, the flushed, furious men desperately trying to hide their arousal. A flicker of something almost like bleak amusement touched his lips before vanishing. "Natural," he murmured tonelessly, his gaze drifting back towards the encroaching darkness. "The house… it amplifies things. Feelings." The laughter died abruptly, replaced by a chilling silence. The faint movement in the hallway solidified. Something was definitely there, watching from the shadows. The metallic tang thickened, coppery and sharp. The forgotten house leaned in.
    Wayne squeezed his eyes shut tighter, focusing fiercely on cold thoughts – ice water, algebra equations, his grandmother knitting socks. Anything to kill the traitorous heat blooming low in his belly. Paul frantically tried to recall the lyrics to "Yankee Doodle," his hips shifting awkwardly on the coarse rug. Amanda wiped tears, still hiccuping with residual giggles, but her gaze kept darting towards Paul’s futile efforts, a strange mixture of horror and fascination twisting her features. Wendy watched them struggle, a strange, wild energy replacing her panic. The absurdity, the sheer impossibility of it – trapped naked, facing some unseen horror, yet consumed by this ridiculous, primal display. A hysterical bubble rose in her throat again. But beneath it, something else sparked. Watching Wayne’s desperate curling, the tense muscles of his back, the frantic pulse visible at his throat… it ignited a furnace deep inside her. The terror hadn’t vanished; it fused with a sudden, overwhelming wave of raw, illicit desire. Her breath hitched. The coarse rug beneath her suddenly felt unbearably stimulating against her bare skin. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Wayne’s exposed flank.
    "I… I need air," Wendy choked out, her voice thick and strange. She scrambled backwards, away from the group, stumbling towards a shadowed alcove near the boarded-up fireplace. The others barely registered her movement, consumed by their own panic and Paul’s frantic shifting. Wendy pressed her back against the cold plaster, hidden from their direct view. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a frantic bird. The terror was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was drowned out by a roaring need. Without conscious thought, her trembling hand slid downwards. Her fingers brushed the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. A jolt of pure electricity shot through her. She gasped, biting her lip hard enough to taste blood. Her fingers moved again, tentative, exploring the slick heat gathering between her legs. The forbidden thrill, the proximity to Wayne, the sheer madness of her situation – it all exploded. Her fingers found their rhythm, urgent and desperate. She pressed her forehead against the rough plaster, muffling her cries. It built impossibly fast, a terrifying crescendo that obliterated thought, obliterated fear. Her body arched violently against the wall, a silent scream tearing through her as wave after wave of blinding, convulsive pleasure crashed over her, shaking her to the core. It lasted an eternity. When it finally receded, leaving her trembling and weak against the wall, the silence in the parlour felt deafening. The metallic scent was overwhelming now. From the hallway, a low, wet sound echoed – like something heavy dragging itself across the floorboards. Marcus whimpered again, shrinking into himself. "It smells her," he whispered, his voice thick with dread. "It smells… *life*."
    Wayne watched Wendy stumble towards the alcove, her movements jerky and unnatural. He saw the frantic shift of her shoulders, heard the choked gasp muffled against the wall. His own traitorous body responded instantly, the stiffness against his thigh becoming painfully insistent. He squeezed his eyes shut, fists clenched. *Algebra. Ice water. Grandma’s socks.* But the image of Wendy’s flushed skin, the curve of her back… it burned brighter. He risked a glance towards the alcove just as she arched violently against the plaster. A choked groan escaped him. He couldn’t look away. The sight was terrifying, obscene… and electrifying. His hand moved of its own accord, sliding down his trembling thigh. His fingers wrapped around his aching hardness. The touch was fire. A ragged gasp tore from his lips. He stroked once, twice, rough and desperate. The pleasure was immediate, intense, drowning out the icy fear. He saw Wendy shudder against the wall, saw her legs tremble. His own climax slammed into him with brutal force, a white-hot explosion that left him gasping, shuddering on the rug, sticky heat coating his fingers. Shame flooded him instantly, hot and suffocating. He curled into a tight ball, hiding his face. Across the room, Paul stared at him, wide-eyed with horrified understanding. Then Paul’s gaze flickered towards Amanda, her full curves trembling as she watched them both, her own arousal evident in her flushed skin and quickened breath. Paul groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Oh god," he mumbled. "We’re… we’re feeding it."
    The wet dragging sound from the hallway grew louder. Closer. Marcus scrambled backwards on his elbows, his vacant eyes wide with terror now. "It’s coming!" he shrieked, pointing a shaking finger towards the dark archway. "It’s coming for her! For all of you!" Amanda screamed, scrambling away from the hallway entrance, her movements clumsy and exposed. Paul lurched to his feet, forgetting his nakedness, stepping protectively in front of Amanda. Wayne forced himself upright, wiping his hand furiously on the coarse rug, his heart hammering against his ribs. Wendy stumbled out from the alcove, her face pale, her legs unsteady. She met Wayne’s gaze. There was no embarrassment now; only shared terror, a desperate understanding. The dragging sound stopped just beyond the threshold of the hallway. The silence that followed was absolute, thick with anticipation. The metallic stench filled the room, cloying and sharp. The boarded windows seemed to press closer. The forgotten house wasn't just awake; it was hungry. And they had just offered it an appetizer. The faintest whisper, like dry leaves skittering across stone, echoed from the darkness. Marcus whimpered, curling into a fetal position. "It wants more," he breathed. The silence deepened, waiting. Outside, unseen birds erupted into frantic, startled flight.
    Panic choked them. They scrambled away from the hallway entrance, pressing themselves against the far wall, huddled together despite their nakedness – a desperate, shivering knot of exposed flesh. Wayne scanned the room again, a frantic, futile search for *anything* to cover themselves with – curtains, a discarded sheet, a rag. Nothing. Only dust, peeling wallpaper, and the oppressive emptiness. The rug offered no shreds. The boarded fireplace held only cold ashes. The terror was momentarily eclipsed by a fresh wave of crushing vulnerability. They were utterly exposed, trapped prey before an unseen predator. That’s when the sound cut through the suffocating silence: a sharp, distinct *rap-rap-rap* on the front door. The sound was startlingly normal, jarringly real. Heads snapped towards the parlour archway leading to the entrance hall. Hope, fragile and desperate, flickered in Amanda’s tear-filled eyes. "Someone’s here!" she gasped, scrambling towards the archway. "Help us! Please!" Wendy grabbed her arm, pulling her back roughly. "Amanda, NO!" Wendy hissed, her voice low and urgent. "Look at us! We’re naked! Absolutely naked!" Amanda froze, her hopeful expression crumbling into horrified realization. They stood frozen, listening. Muffled voices drifted through the heavy wood – laughter, conversation. People. Dressed people. Right outside.
    Paul crept forward silently, bare feet padding on the dusty floorboards. He pressed himself against the wall beside the front door. A small, brass peephole, clouded with grime, was set into the wood at eye level. He leaned forward, squinting through it. Wayne watched him, holding his breath. Paul’s shoulders slumped slightly, then stiffened. "It’s… it’s a bunch of people," he whispered hoarsely, stepping back. "Dressed. Like… tourists? Or locals. They’re pointing at the house, talking." Amanda whimpered, pressing her hands harder against her body. "We have to… we have to ask for help!" she pleaded softly. "They could call the police!" Wendy shook her head fiercely. "And have them see us like *this*? Trapped naked in a haunted house? They’d think we’re insane! Or worse!" The shame was palpable now, mingling with the terror. The voices outside grew louder, clearer. "...supposed to be haunted, eh?" a man chuckled. "Looks it!" a woman replied. "Should we try the door?" another voice suggested. Amanda lunged towards the door handle. "Yes! Please!" Wendy grabbed her again, pulling her back. "No! Wait!" They froze, listening. Footsteps shuffled on the porch. Then, slowly, the voices faded as the group apparently moved away. The opportunity vanished with them. Silence returned, heavier than before. Wayne felt a surge of despair. Had they just doomed themselves?
    Amanda wrenched free from Wendy’s grip. "We need to get *out*!" she cried, rushing towards the door. Before anyone could stop her, she grabbed the tarnished brass knob. To everyone’s shock, it turned easily in her hand. With a groan of disuse, the heavy door swung inward a few inches. Cold, damp air rushed in. Outside, the weak grey light revealed the backs of the retreating group, perhaps twenty feet away, walking towards the overgrown driveway. "Hey!" Amanda screamed, her voice raw. "Help!" Heads turned. Faces registered surprise, then confusion, then widening eyes as they took in the sight of the naked woman standing in the doorway of the derelict house. Amanda realized her exposure instantly. She shrieked, trying to slam the door shut. But the group outside, reacting to her cry, started turning back towards the house. Paul lunged past Amanda, grabbing the door’s edge. "Get back!" he yelled at the approaching figures, his own nudity fully visible now. He slammed the door shut with all his strength. *Click*. The unmistakable sound of the lock engaging echoed in the sudden silence. Paul frantically twisted the knob. It didn’t budge. Locked. Solid. Again. He slumped against the wood, breathing hard. Outside, confused shouts grew louder, closer. Knocking resumed, harder this time. "Hello? Are you alright in there?" a man’s concerned voice called. They were trapped. Exposed. And now, the forgotten house had witnesses to its hunger. The dragging sound started again from the hallway, louder, wetter. Closer.
    Silence crashed down inside the parlour, thick with the echo of the lock clicking and the frantic pounding outside. Wayne stared at the door, then at Amanda, trembling and exposed near the entrance. "It unlocked," he whispered, the realization hitting him like ice water. "When they were outside… it unlocked for Amanda." Paul shoved himself away from the door, his face pale. "And locked itself the second we slammed it shut!" He rattled the knob violently. Nothing. "It only unlocks… when there are people out there? People who could *see* us?" The implication hung heavy and absurd. Wendy hugged herself tighter. "That’s insane," she breathed, her voice shaky. "How?" Marcus spoke from his corner, his voice flat, devoid of surprise. "It wants witnesses. It feeds on… exposure. On shame. On the *looking*." He gestured weakly towards the boarded windows. "It wants them to see." Outside, the knocking intensified. "Open up! We heard screaming!" The voices were urgent now. Amanda whimpered, shrinking away from the door, trying to hide behind Paul’s lean frame. "We can’t… we can’t let them see us like this!"
    They huddled back towards the dusty rug, away from the door and the terrifying hallway entrance. The pounding continued, relentless. "It makes a twisted kind of sense," Wayne muttered, running a hand through his hair. "The whole legend… clothes vanishing… the panic… it thrives on the violation, the humiliation. Having outsiders see us trapped and naked? That’s… potent." Paul nodded grimly. "Yeah. Like Marcus said. Proof. Amplified." He glanced towards the hallway, where the dragging sound had paused again. "So… the only way the door unlocks is if people are outside? Meaning… the only way *out*…" Wendy finished the horrifying thought, her voice tight with dread. "...is to open the door while they’re there. To let them see us." The silence deepened. The pounding on the door felt like a drumbeat counting down their choices. Face the unseen horror in the hallway, or face the horrified stares of strangers? Both options promised unbearable exposure. The metallic tang thickened, coppery and sharp. The forgotten house held its breath, savoring their dilemma. Outside, the shouts grew more insistent. "We’re calling the police!" The dragging sound resumed, slow, deliberate, echoing from the shadows. Closer. Much closer.
    Minutes crawled by. The pounding stopped. The voices faded. They listened intently, straining for sirens. Nothing came. Only the oppressive silence of the boarded-up house and the chilling, wet scrape from the hallway. The hope that authorities would arrive, bypassing their shame to rescue them, evaporated. They were utterly alone again. Trapped. The tension shifted, became palpable. Wendy shifted uncomfortably. "I… I need to pee," she whispered, her face flushed crimson. Wayne felt the same urgent pressure building in his own bladder. Amanda nodded frantically. "Me too. So bad." There was nowhere to go. No bathroom. No privacy. Just the dusty rug, the peeling wallpaper, and the encroaching darkness. They glanced at each other, mortified. Paul gestured sharply towards the corners of the room furthest from the hallway entrance. "Corners," he muttered, his own face tight. "Turn away. Don’t look." It was a pitiful solution. Wendy scurried to one corner, pressing herself against the wall. Amanda hurried to another. Wayne and Paul took opposite corners, facing the peeling plaster. The sounds were unavoidable – the frantic trickle against the baseboard, Wendy’s choked sob of humiliation. The stench of ammonia quickly mingled with the metallic tang. The house felt smaller, more violating than ever. Marcus remained curled near the hallway entrance, oblivious, whispering fragments of the house’s hunger. The dragging sound paused again, listening. The sexual tension hadn't vanished; it simmered beneath the shame and terror, amplified by the raw intimacy of shared degradation.
    They shuffled back to the rug, avoiding each other’s eyes. The silence was thick with unspoken horror and acute embarrassment. Amanda curled into a tight ball, trying to disappear. Paul paced restlessly, his earlier arousal replaced by a frantic, trapped-animal energy. Wayne stared at the boarded window, the weak grey light taunting him. "So," he said, his voice rough. "We wait." Wendy hugged herself tighter. "For what? More tourists?" Paul stopped pacing. "Yeah. For the next group. The next chance." He looked towards the door. "The door unlocked for Amanda because she opened it when people were outside. We have to be ready. Next time someone comes… we open it. Fast." Amanda whimpered. "But… they’ll see us!" "They’ll see us," Wayne agreed grimly. "But maybe… maybe that’s the price. The house wants witnesses? Fine. Give it witnesses. And while they’re staring… we run." The plan was desperate, humiliating, their only lifeline. They’d have to stand exposed in the doorway, naked and terrified, while strangers gaped, and then bolt past them into the outside world. The dragging sound started again from the hallway, wet and heavy, just beyond the archway. Marcus whimpered, shrinking back. "It knows," he whispered. "It knows the plan." The metallic scent intensified, cloying now. The forgotten house waited, patient. It knew the next group would come. And so did they. The silence stretched, taut as a wire, vibrating with dread and the promise of exposure. Outside, a lone crow cawed, a harsh sound swallowed instantly by the oppressive stillness. They waited.
    The night crawled past, endless and freezing. Sleep was impossible. Every creak, every sigh of the old timbers, sounded like the dragging horror approaching. They huddled together for warmth, the proximity amplifying the lingering sexual tension beneath the terror. Amanda’s soft cries echoed Wayne’s own despair. Paul’s restless shifting mirrored Wendy’s frantic energy. Marcus remained a silent, broken statue near the hallway, his vacant eyes fixed on the dark archway. The metallic tang hung thick, mixing with the stale scent of urine and fear. Dawn arrived not with sunlight, but with a gradual lightening of the grey gloom filtering through cracks in the boards. The dragging sound had stopped hours ago, leaving an eerie quiet. Then, abruptly, loud noises erupted outside – voices shouting, car doors slamming, the rumble of engines. Wayne scrambled up, heart pounding. "Someone’s here!" Paul lurched towards the door, pressing his eye against the grimy peephole. His breath caught. "Oh god," he whispered, stepping back, face pale. "It’s… it’s huge. A crowd. Like… dozens. And cameras. TV cameras." Wendy recoiled. "Cameras? No! No way! I am *not* going out there!" She gestured wildly at her nakedness. "Look at me! Look at all of us!"
    Paul spun around, his voice cracking with urgency. "Wendy, look around! There’s nothing! No food! No water! We’ve been trapped naked for over a day!" He gestured wildly at the bare room, the boarded windows. "If we don’t get out now, we *die* here! Starve! Become ghosts trapped with Marcus’s monster!" The reality slammed into them. The terror of the house was immediate, but starvation was a slow, certain horror. Amanda whimpered, staring at her trembling hands. "He’s right," she whispered, tears welling again. "We… we have to." Her gaze met Wayne’s. He saw the same desperate calculation. Exposure now, or death later. Reluctantly, Wayne nodded. Paul positioned himself by the door knob. "On three," he rasped, eyes wide with terror. "Amanda, you open it. We run. Don’t stop. One… Two… THREE!" Amanda lunged, grabbing the brass knob. It turned smoothly. She pulled the heavy door wide open. Blinding grey light flooded the dusty parlour. A cacophony hit them – shouts, cheers, gasps, the whirring clicks of cameras. Amanda froze in the doorway, utterly exposed. Paul grabbed her arm, pulling her forward. "GO!" he yelled. Wayne pushed Wendy ahead of him. They stumbled out onto the sagging porch, shielding themselves with trembling hands as best they could. The roar from the crowd intensified – cheers mixed with shocked exclamations and laughter. Camera flashes exploded like frantic fireflies. Mortification burned hotter than the freezing air. They scrambled down the rotting steps, bare feet scraping on gravel, desperate to vanish into the treeline beyond the driveway.
    Wayne reached the bottom step, gravel biting his soles, when Wendy's scream cut through the crowd noise—not terror this time, but horrified realization. "Marcus!" she shrieked, pointing back. Wayne spun. The doorway stood empty. Marcus hadn't followed them out. Inside the shadowed parlour, a deeper darkness coalesced near the hallway entrance—a towering, indistinct shape, impossibly tall and thick-limbed, radiating pure malice. Before anyone could react, the heavy front door slammed shut with a thunderous *BANG*, shaking the porch frame. The sudden silence from the crowd was deafening. Hundreds of eyes locked onto the four naked, trembling figures huddled on the porch.
    "No!" Paul roared, forgetting everything but Marcus. He lunged back up the steps, grabbing the tarnished brass knob. He twisted. Pulled. Shoved. Nothing. "It's locked! Solid!" He slammed his shoulder against the weathered wood, the impact jarringly loud against the stunned silence. "MARCUS!" Amanda scrambled up beside him, adding her weight, her frantic shoves jostling Paul violently. "Help us!" she screamed at the frozen crowd, her voice raw. "Please! He's still in there!" But her cry ripped her attention outward. She saw them—the sea of faces, mouths agape, smartphones raised, cameras clicking relentlessly. Her hands flew down instinctively, trying to cover herself as she pushed against the unyielding door. Mortification flooded her face, hotter than any terror. "Stop filming!" she wailed, twisting away. "Oh god, STOP LOOKING!"
    Wendy stood frozen halfway down the steps, caught between the locked door and the staring crowd. She tried to shield herself with her arms, but the exposure was absolute. The sheer weight of hundreds of gazes felt like physical blows. A choked sob escaped her. "Turn around!" she screamed at the nearest onlookers, her voice cracking with hysteria and shame. "All of you! Turn AWAY!" She instinctively crouched, trying to curl into a ball right there on the step, but the movement only drew more attention. Camera flashes flared again, capturing her frantic vulnerability. The crowd's murmurs surged—a mix of shock, morbid fascination, and nervous laughter. Wayne, rooted to the gravel driveway, felt the same suffocating exposure. He covered himself clumsily, his face burning crimson as he scanned the sea of gawking faces. The forgotten house had its witnesses. Their escape was a spectacle of utter humiliation. Inside, beyond the locked door, Marcus screamed—a single, agonized sound that cut off abruptly. Silence swallowed the house whole. The crowd gasped as one.
    A burly man in a flannel shirt pushed forward, shrugging off his jacket. "Here," he said gruffly, tossing it towards Amanda, who stood trembling beside Paul at the locked door. Others followed suit—a woman offered a scarf, another man threw a bundled-up hoodie towards Wayne. Relief warred with humiliation as they scrambled to cover themselves with the meager offerings. "Who did this?" the flannel-shirted man demanded, gesturing towards the house. "What kind of sick joke is this?" A younger woman near the front waved her phone. "Got a text!" she called out. "Anonymous. Said there'd be a big naked stunt here today. Free show!" Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. "Yeah, me too!" shouted another. "Got it last night!" Paul stared, stunned. "A text?" he echoed. "Marcus… the house… it set this up." Amanda clutched the jacket tighter around herself. "Marcus," she whispered, her eyes wide with horror as she stared at the locked door. "He's still in there with… with *it*."
    Sirens wailed in the distance. Moments later, two police cruisers skidded to a halt near the driveway. Officers pushed through the murmuring crowd, their expressions shifting from confusion to stern disapproval as they took in the scene—the half-clothed group, the derelict house, the excited spectators. "Alright, everyone, back up!" one officer ordered. "What's going on here?" Wayne stepped forward, his voice tight. "Our friend is trapped inside! Something took him! Please—you have to get him out!" The officers exchanged skeptical glances. "Trapped?" The taller one frowned. "Door locked?" He strode past them, tested the knob. It turned easily. He pushed the door open, peered inside the shadowed parlour. "Marcus!" Wayne yelled past him. "MARCUS!" Only silence answered. The officer stepped fully inside, his partner following cautiously. They scanned the dusty, bare room—the peeling wallpaper, the stained rug, the dark hallway entrance. "Clear!" the first officer called after a brief search. "Nobody here." He emerged, shaking his head. "Place is empty. Looks like a bad prank to me." His partner eyed the group. "Public nudity's a misdemeanor. You folks wanna explain yourselves?"
    "It wasn't a stunt!" Wendy cried, pulling the scarf tighter. "We were trapped! Our clothes vanished! That house… it ate Marcus!" The officers' expressions hardened into disbelief. "Right," the taller one sighed. "Vanishing clothes. Monsters. Look, we'll get you somewhere warm. Sort this out downtown." He gestured towards the cruisers. Panic flared in Wayne. Downtown meant reports, mugshots, explaining this nightmare to strangers—while Marcus was gone. Truly gone. The house had swallowed him whole. The crowd watched, buzzing with theories about viral marketing gone wrong. Amanda shivered violently. "Just get us away from here," she pleaded, her voice small and broken. "Please. Just take us away." As the officers guided them towards the waiting cars, Wayne cast one last look back at the silent, boarded-up house. It sat hunched and dark against the grey sky, its hunger sated. For now. The front door hung slightly ajar, revealing only empty gloom. Marcus was gone. Only the shame remained.
    The station's harsh fluorescent lights felt like interrogation beams. They sat wrapped in scratchy blankets, sipping lukewarm coffee from paper cups. The officers took statements separately, their skepticism palpable. Wayne recounted the unnaturally locked doors, the vanished clothes, the dragging horror. The officer tapped his pen on the notepad. "So… this 'entity' amplified… feelings?" Wayne flushed crimson. "Yes." The officer noted something, his expression carefully neutral. Paul described Marcus's catatonic state and the final scream. The officer raised an eyebrow. "And you all saw this 'dark shape'?" Paul nodded, fists clenched. Amanda wept softly as she described her humiliation, her terror. The officer offered tissues, his gaze flicking briefly to her trembling hands clutching the blanket. Wendy, recounting the desperate escape and Marcus's sacrifice, couldn't suppress a shuddering breath recalling her own illicit release against the cold plaster. Her cheeks burned scarlet. The officers saw it all—the genuine terror beneath the absurdity, the lingering mortification… and the faint, undeniable echo of arousal that still stained their flushed skin and haunted their eyes. They weren't lying. They believed every impossible word. But belief wasn't proof. "We'll file a missing persons report for Marcus," the senior officer finally stated, closing his notebook. "But frankly, folks, this sounds like severe group hysteria. Trauma bonding mixed with suggestion. Get some rest. See a doctor." They were released into the grey afternoon, hollow and exposed.
    Three days crawled by. Sleep brought nightmares of dragging sounds and locked doors. Showering felt futile; the phantom scent of rotten apples and copper lingered. They huddled in Wayne's cramped apartment, jumping at shadows, avoiding mirrors. The silence was suffocating. Then, Wendy's phone buzzed. A new text. From an unknown number. Her blood ran cold. She held it up. The screen displayed a chilling message: **`This is from the house. If you want Marcus back, send somebody who will feed me well.`** The room plunged into icy silence. Paul snatched the phone, rereading the words. "Feed it well?" Amanda whispered, horrified. "What does that even mean?" Wayne stared at the screen. "Marcus," he said slowly, the pieces clicking. "He fed it *us*. Our fear. Our… exposure. Our shame." He met Wendy's widening eyes. "And our… other impulses." Wendy remembered her own frantic climax, Wayne's choked groan. The house had feasted on that raw energy too. Marcus had lured them precisely because he knew their dynamics—the tension, the hidden attractions. He'd chosen appetizing prey.
    Wendy snatched her phone back, her thumb flying across the screen. A slow, unsettling smile spread across her face, devoid of humor, sharp with vengeful intent. "What are you doing?" Paul demanded, leaning closer. Amanda peered over her shoulder. Wendy scrolled rapidly through her contacts, her smile widening into something predatory. "Marcus," she said, her voice low and dangerous, "had a *very* specific type. Blonde. Loud. Dramatic. The kind who thrives on chaos and… attention." She tapped a name—*Brittany*. Then another—*Skylar*. And another. "He dated half the drama club. Every breakup was a five-alarm fire on social media." She looked up, her eyes gleaming with cold fury. "He fed *us* to that thing. Time to return the favor." She started typing a rapid-fire group text: **`URGENT! Marcus trapped @ creepy Holloway House! Needs rescue NOW! Bring friends! HUGE party vibe! Don’t wait! GO NOW!`** She hit send. The phone chimed softly. Wayne stared at her, aghast yet impressed. Paul let out a shaky, incredulous laugh. "You're sending Brittany Teller into that house? She'll livestream the whole damn thing!" Amanda managed a weak, horrified giggle. "It… it might actually work." The absurdity was terrifying. They were weaponizing Marcus's exes against a hungry house. But as they pictured Brittany storming the porch, phone aloft, broadcasting her grand entrance to the world, a dark, shared chuckle rippled through the room. The house wanted exposure? Wendy was sending it a feast. The phone buzzed again. Brittany had already replied: **`OMG WTF?! On our way! #RescueMission #HollowayHorror`** Wendy smiled vindictively. "Eat up!!!"
 

I started the story fairly late at night thinking it would be a quick one but once again it just totally took off. And I feel that this is a good one to write for the Halloween season, as I am writing this in October 2025, and like a lot of my naked stories it does involve fantastical or supernatural elements. The one behind this was simple, I thought it would be funny if people were dared to go into a house that apparently eats human clothing, and of course they don't believe that, and of course it turns out to be true, thus facilitating all of the embarrassment of all of these characters. I like the way it just got sort of more complicated and absurd where the house was feeding on their sexual tension and embarrassment, and then the only way they can escape from the house is if they sufficiently embarrassed themselves, and the house is able to send messages to all of them, and the characters are all being a little bit hypocritical because there being turned on even as they are finding it humiliating. But I think that in the end it works out pretty well because Mark kind of gets what's coming to him, even though that last scene was mostly implied, but I thought that that was sort of a good way of ending it.