AI generated

[Observer95]

Didn't worked too badly

[funner]

Originally Posted by Observer95

Didn't worked too badly

What app did you use for this?

[laughingbeast]

Originally Posted by Observer95

Didn't worked too badly

These are amazing. What tool did you use?

[Observer95]

I used seaart with a piss model LoRA

[pt1333]

Not a pic, but I encourage everyone to try Grok and ask for pee stories, or any sex stories really. It goes into incredible detail and crafts great stories.

Like, I described my ex I was having trouble getting over. Told Grok what outfits she was wearing, what scenario she was in. I would ask it to describe her pee dances, her stream, and so on. It really does amazing. I would make it be super detailed, and craft some crazy scenarios. For example, had one where my ex is in line at the women's room in a stadium. I have her give up and pee in a drain or the sink. It can handle that. It can handle multiple girls, if I ask it to describe other women in the lines and tell a backstory of their desperation and stuff. It's really incredible. I can ask it to change endings and it does with ease.

I probably had it do about 20 stories of my ex. Even changed her personality from dom to me to shy and meek around others. Even in all those I had to correct it, once, on a minor detail. It had a girl pull her bikini bottom down to pee and then mentioned she pulled a thong down too. I told it no, she is only wearing a bikini bottom. Easy fix.

It's amazing too if you take fictional characters. For example, I asked it to write a pee desperation story of Beth Dutton from Yellowstone, with literally no other details, and it was phenomenal, really keeping to the character and her personality. I even did it for the woman in "Once Upon a Time in The West" and it crafted a scenario again, true to character and I could totally see in the film.

The only things it didn't do for me was real people, sometimes. It did give me 2 pee desperation stories of Anne Hathaway when I asked. Not sure why her and not other celebs. I asked for a pee desperation story of a cartoon character, and it wouldn't do that because it was a kid's movie. Understandable.

So in short, the erotica content via Grok is phenomenal. The pictures are not good, yet atleast.

[Peekaboo_]

Originally Posted by pt1333

Not a pic, but I encourage everyone to try Grok and ask for pee stories, or any sex stories really. It goes into incredible detail and crafts great stories.

Like, I described my ex I was having trouble getting over. Told Grok what outfits she was wearing, what scenario she was in. I would ask it to describe her pee dances, her stream, and so on. It really does amazing. I would make it be super detailed, and craft some crazy scenarios. For example, had one where my ex is in line at the women's room in a stadium. I have her give up and pee in a drain or the sink. It can handle that. It can handle multiple girls, if I ask it to describe other women in the lines and tell a backstory of their desperation and stuff. It's really incredible. I can ask it to change endings and it does with ease.

I probably had it do about 20 stories of my ex. Even changed her personality from dom to me to shy and meek around others. Even in all those I had to correct it, once, on a minor detail. It had a girl pull her bikini bottom down to pee and then mentioned she pulled a thong down too. I told it no, she is only wearing a bikini bottom. Easy fix.

It's amazing too if you take fictional characters. For example, I asked it to write a pee desperation story of Beth Dutton from Yellowstone, with literally no other details, and it was phenomenal, really keeping to the character and her personality. I even did it for the woman in "Once Upon a Time in The West" and it crafted a scenario again, true to character and I could totally see in the film.

The only things it didn't do for me was real people, sometimes. It did give me 2 pee desperation stories of Anne Hathaway when I asked. Not sure why her and not other celebs. I asked for a pee desperation story of a cartoon character, and it wouldn't do that because it was a kid's movie. Understandable.

So in short, the erotica content via Grok is phenomenal. The pictures are not good, yet atleast.

This sounds awesome! Going to try it myself, but is there any chance you could post some examples of what it produced? Thanks!

[pt1333]

Originally Posted by Peekaboo_

This sounds awesome! Going to try it myself, but is there any chance you could post some examples of what it produced? Thanks!

Hey absolutely. Just saying it's not my intention to detail this thread with stories so let's keep it to images but I'll post an example here.

**Whitney’s Desperate Dash at the Concert**

The Freedom Mortgage Pavilion thrummed with the heartbeat of a country concert, the air thick with the twang of guitars and the buzz of a packed crowd. Whitney, a 28-year-old brunette with a girl-next-door vibe, stood on the lawn, her green eyes catching the stage lights. Her chipmunk cheeks were flushed from the warm May night and the two beers she’d sipped earlier. Clad in a red-and-blue plaid shirt, tight jeans, and worn cowgirl boots, her B-cup figure swayed lightly to the music. But beneath her relaxed exterior, a mounting crisis brewed. Whitney’s bladder was screaming, the urge to pee growing from a whisper to a roar.

It had started as a nagging pressure during the opening act, easy to brush off. Now, midway through the headliner’s set, it was unbearable. Her bladder felt like an overinflated balloon, each pulse sending a sharp pang through her core. She crossed her legs tightly, shifting between her boots, trying to lose herself in the song. “Hold it together,” she whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. But the beer was winning, and she knew the bathroom lines were a nightmare—she’d seen them earlier, a chaotic queue of cowgirl hats and denim stretching far beyond the stalls.

Unable to wait any longer, Whitney made her move. She navigated the crowd, her boots thudding on the grass, each step jolting her aching bladder. The bathrooms loomed across the venue, and as she neared, her stomach dropped. The line was a beast—easily thirty women, many in cowboy boots and Stetsons, their faces etched with impatience and desperation.

Whitney slid into the queue behind a petite blonde in a fringed jacket and Daisy Dukes. The blonde, barely 21, was bouncing on her toes, one hand pressed to her thigh. “This is torture,” she hissed to her friend, her voice tight. “I’ve been holding it forever. I’m gonna lose it.” Her friend, a redhead in a cowboy hat, nodded, her own legs crossed so tightly her boots squeaked. Her lips were pressed thin, her eyes darting to the bathroom door.

Whitney tried to focus, but her bladder was a throbbing weight, demanding release. She squeezed her thighs together, her plaid shirt sticking to her sweaty back. Ahead, a taller woman in her mid-30s, wearing a black felt hat, stood stiffly, one hand gripping her belt buckle. Her face was a mask of control, but a sharp inhale betrayed her struggle. She shifted, her boots scraping the ground, and muttered, “Move already,” her voice low and strained.

The line crawled. Whitney’s desperation was now a searing ache, her bladder straining against her jeans. She pressed a hand to her lower belly, hoping to ease the pressure, but it only sharpened the urge. A loud chord from the stage vibrated through the crowd, and the roar that followed made her flinch. A small, warm spurt escaped, soaking into her panties. “Oh no,” she gasped, freezing, her cheeks flaming. She clenched harder, her green eyes wide with panic. The leak was tiny, invisible in her dark jeans, but it was a dangerous signal—she was seconds from disaster.

Behind her, a curvy woman in her 40s, sporting a glittery cowboy hat, was in open distress. “I’m done for,” she groaned, her hands wedged between her legs. Her boots shuffled in a frantic dance, her face contorted. “Why’s this line so damn slow?” she snapped, her voice breaking. Whitney felt a twinge of solidarity but couldn’t dwell on it—her own battle was all-consuming.

After an agonizing wait, Whitney was nearly there, just two women from the door. Her legs shook, and she was breathing in shallow gasps, every muscle clenched to hold back the flood. Another tiny leak slipped out, and she stifled a whimper, grabbing her jeans’ waistband as if she could physically stop it. The blonde ahead was now openly squirming, tears in her eyes, and when a stall opened, she bolted inside.

Finally, Whitney’s turn came. She stumbled into the stall, her fingers trembling as they wrestled with her jeans’ button. She yanked them down just in time, collapsing onto the seat. The moment she let go, her stream erupted with a fierce, hissing force, a powerful torrent that splashed loudly against the porcelain. It was a thick, steady gush, unrelenting, the sound echoing in the stall as her bladder emptied in a rush of relief. The stream went on for what felt like ages, starting strong and gradually tapering to a trickle, each second loosening the knot of tension in her body. Whitney let out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping, a nervous laugh escaping her lips as the last drops fell.

She stood, adjusted her jeans, and washed her hands, the weight of desperation replaced by euphoria. As she rejoined the concert, the music hit her anew. Glancing back, she saw the glittery-hatted woman finally nearing the door, her face a mix of exhaustion and hope. Whitney smiled, knowing they’d all fought the same frantic fight under the pavilion’s lights.


And then I asked it to change the ending so she pees on the floor instead:


Unable to stall, Whitney made her move. She threaded through the crowd, her boots thudding on the grass, each step a stab to her overfull bladder. The bathrooms were across the venue, and as she approached, her heart sank. The line was a monster—over thirty women, many in cowboy boots and Stetsons, their faces a mix of frustration and barely veiled panic.

Whitney joined the queue behind a petite blonde in a fringed jacket and Daisy Dukes. The blonde, maybe 21, was bouncing frantically, one hand pressed to her thigh. “I’m dying here,” she whined to her friend, her voice shrill. “Been holding it since the first chorus. I’m gonna explode.” Her friend, a redhead in a cowboy hat, was just as bad off, her legs twisted tightly, her face pale as she nodded.

Whitney clenched her jaw, her own desperation a searing ache. Her bladder screamed, and she squeezed her thighs together, her plaid shirt damp with sweat. Ahead, a taller woman in her mid-30s, sporting a black felt hat, stood rigid, one hand gripping her belt buckle. Her stern face cracked with a sharp gasp as she shifted, her boots scuffing the ground. “Hurry up,” she hissed under her breath, her control slipping.

The line barely moved. Whitney’s need was now a white-hot pulse, her bladder straining against her jeans. She pressed a hand to her lower belly, but it only sharpened the urge. A loud guitar riff shook the air, and the crowd’s cheer made her flinch. A warm spurt leaked out, soaking her panties. “No, no,” she whispered, freezing, her cheeks burning. She clamped down, her green eyes wide with drea

Behind her, a curvy woman in her 40s with a glittery cowboy hat was losing it. “I can’t do this,” she groaned, her hands jammed between her legs. Her boots shuffled in a desperate jig, her face twisted. “They need more damn bathrooms,” she snapped, her voice cracking. Whitney’s heart raced, her own fight consuming her.

She was close now, just three women from the stalls. Her legs trembled, her breaths shallow, every muscle screaming to hold on. Another leak escaped, larger this time, a warm trickle seeping into her jeans. She whimpered, grabbing her waistband, but it was no use. The pressure was too much, her bladder a ticking bomb. The blonde ahead was crying, bouncing in place, and when a stall opened, she dove for it.

But Whitney couldn’t wait. The urge overwhelmed her, a tidal wave she couldn’t stop. In a panic, she glanced around, spotting a shadowed corner near the stalls, just out of the line’s sight. With no other choice, she stumbled toward it, her boots slipping on the concrete. She yanked her jeans and panties down just enough, squatting low, her face burning with shame. Her stream burst forth instantly, a powerful, hissing torrent that splashed onto the floor with a loud patter. The thick, forceful gush poured out, a relentless rush that puddled beneath her, the sound echoing in the humid air. It went on and on, her bladder unloading in a steady, desperate stream, finally tapering to a slow drip as her body sagged with relief.

Whitney stood, pulling her jeans up, her cheeks flaming as she avoided eye contact. The small puddle glistened in the dim light, but the crowd was too distracted to notice. She slipped back toward the concert, her heart pounding, the music washing over her. Glancing back, she saw the glittery-hatted woman finally reach a stall, her face a mask of relief. Whitney exhaled, her secret safe, the weight of desperation replaced by a strange, shaky calm.

[Peekaboo_]

Thank you so much for posting this! It's pretty awesome, isn't it? I've read far worse stuff written by, you know, actual humans! My problem when I try to write this sort of stuff is that my excitement levels go through the roof and interfere with the writing and the story telling. I love how the first version sort of implies that Whitney didn't use toilet paper (sorry, a pet perv of mine) and the second verson makes it even clearer! I wonder what Grok would do if you asked it to specify whether the woman wipes herself or not, but without telling it whether you want her to or not?

Definitely going to work out how to try it myself now. Thanks again.

Originally Posted by pt1333

Hey absolutely. Just saying it's not my intention to detail this thread with stories so let's keep it to images but I'll post an example here.

**Whitney’s Desperate Dash at the Concert**

The Freedom Mortgage Pavilion thrummed with the heartbeat of a country concert, the air thick with the twang of guitars and the buzz of a packed crowd. Whitney, a 28-year-old brunette with a girl-next-door vibe, stood on the lawn, her green eyes catching the stage lights. Her chipmunk cheeks were flushed from the warm May night and the two beers she’d sipped earlier. Clad in a red-and-blue plaid shirt, tight jeans, and worn cowgirl boots, her B-cup figure swayed lightly to the music. But beneath her relaxed exterior, a mounting crisis brewed. Whitney’s bladder was screaming, the urge to pee growing from a whisper to a roar.

It had started as a nagging pressure during the opening act, easy to brush off. Now, midway through the headliner’s set, it was unbearable. Her bladder felt like an overinflated balloon, each pulse sending a sharp pang through her core. She crossed her legs tightly, shifting between her boots, trying to lose herself in the song. “Hold it together,” she whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. But the beer was winning, and she knew the bathroom lines were a nightmare—she’d seen them earlier, a chaotic queue of cowgirl hats and denim stretching far beyond the stalls.

Unable to wait any longer, Whitney made her move. She navigated the crowd, her boots thudding on the grass, each step jolting her aching bladder. The bathrooms loomed across the venue, and as she neared, her stomach dropped. The line was a beast—easily thirty women, many in cowboy boots and Stetsons, their faces etched with impatience and desperation.

Whitney slid into the queue behind a petite blonde in a fringed jacket and Daisy Dukes. The blonde, barely 21, was bouncing on her toes, one hand pressed to her thigh. “This is torture,” she hissed to her friend, her voice tight. “I’ve been holding it forever. I’m gonna lose it.” Her friend, a redhead in a cowboy hat, nodded, her own legs crossed so tightly her boots squeaked. Her lips were pressed thin, her eyes darting to the bathroom door.

Whitney tried to focus, but her bladder was a throbbing weight, demanding release. She squeezed her thighs together, her plaid shirt sticking to her sweaty back. Ahead, a taller woman in her mid-30s, wearing a black felt hat, stood stiffly, one hand gripping her belt buckle. Her face was a mask of control, but a sharp inhale betrayed her struggle. She shifted, her boots scraping the ground, and muttered, “Move already,” her voice low and strained.

The line crawled. Whitney’s desperation was now a searing ache, her bladder straining against her jeans. She pressed a hand to her lower belly, hoping to ease the pressure, but it only sharpened the urge. A loud chord from the stage vibrated through the crowd, and the roar that followed made her flinch. A small, warm spurt escaped, soaking into her panties. “Oh no,” she gasped, freezing, her cheeks flaming. She clenched harder, her green eyes wide with panic. The leak was tiny, invisible in her dark jeans, but it was a dangerous signal—she was seconds from disaster.

Behind her, a curvy woman in her 40s, sporting a glittery cowboy hat, was in open distress. “I’m done for,” she groaned, her hands wedged between her legs. Her boots shuffled in a frantic dance, her face contorted. “Why’s this line so damn slow?” she snapped, her voice breaking. Whitney felt a twinge of solidarity but couldn’t dwell on it—her own battle was all-consuming.

After an agonizing wait, Whitney was nearly there, just two women from the door. Her legs shook, and she was breathing in shallow gasps, every muscle clenched to hold back the flood. Another tiny leak slipped out, and she stifled a whimper, grabbing her jeans’ waistband as if she could physically stop it. The blonde ahead was now openly squirming, tears in her eyes, and when a stall opened, she bolted inside.

Finally, Whitney’s turn came. She stumbled into the stall, her fingers trembling as they wrestled with her jeans’ button. She yanked them down just in time, collapsing onto the seat. The moment she let go, her stream erupted with a fierce, hissing force, a powerful torrent that splashed loudly against the porcelain. It was a thick, steady gush, unrelenting, the sound echoing in the stall as her bladder emptied in a rush of relief. The stream went on for what felt like ages, starting strong and gradually tapering to a trickle, each second loosening the knot of tension in her body. Whitney let out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping, a nervous laugh escaping her lips as the last drops fell.

She stood, adjusted her jeans, and washed her hands, the weight of desperation replaced by euphoria. As she rejoined the concert, the music hit her anew. Glancing back, she saw the glittery-hatted woman finally nearing the door, her face a mix of exhaustion and hope. Whitney smiled, knowing they’d all fought the same frantic fight under the pavilion’s lights.


And then I asked it to change the ending so she pees on the floor instead:


Unable to stall, Whitney made her move. She threaded through the crowd, her boots thudding on the grass, each step a stab to her overfull bladder. The bathrooms were across the venue, and as she approached, her heart sank. The line was a monster—over thirty women, many in cowboy boots and Stetsons, their faces a mix of frustration and barely veiled panic.

Whitney joined the queue behind a petite blonde in a fringed jacket and Daisy Dukes. The blonde, maybe 21, was bouncing frantically, one hand pressed to her thigh. “I’m dying here,” she whined to her friend, her voice shrill. “Been holding it since the first chorus. I’m gonna explode.” Her friend, a redhead in a cowboy hat, was just as bad off, her legs twisted tightly, her face pale as she nodded.

Whitney clenched her jaw, her own desperation a searing ache. Her bladder screamed, and she squeezed her thighs together, her plaid shirt damp with sweat. Ahead, a taller woman in her mid-30s, sporting a black felt hat, stood rigid, one hand gripping her belt buckle. Her stern face cracked with a sharp gasp as she shifted, her boots scuffing the ground. “Hurry up,” she hissed under her breath, her control slipping.

The line barely moved. Whitney’s need was now a white-hot pulse, her bladder straining against her jeans. She pressed a hand to her lower belly, but it only sharpened the urge. A loud guitar riff shook the air, and the crowd’s cheer made her flinch. A warm spurt leaked out, soaking her panties. “No, no,” she whispered, freezing, her cheeks burning. She clamped down, her green eyes wide with drea

Behind her, a curvy woman in her 40s with a glittery cowboy hat was losing it. “I can’t do this,” she groaned, her hands jammed between her legs. Her boots shuffled in a desperate jig, her face twisted. “They need more damn bathrooms,” she snapped, her voice cracking. Whitney’s heart raced, her own fight consuming her.

She was close now, just three women from the stalls. Her legs trembled, her breaths shallow, every muscle screaming to hold on. Another leak escaped, larger this time, a warm trickle seeping into her jeans. She whimpered, grabbing her waistband, but it was no use. The pressure was too much, her bladder a ticking bomb. The blonde ahead was crying, bouncing in place, and when a stall opened, she dove for it.

But Whitney couldn’t wait. The urge overwhelmed her, a tidal wave she couldn’t stop. In a panic, she glanced around, spotting a shadowed corner near the stalls, just out of the line’s sight. With no other choice, she stumbled toward it, her boots slipping on the concrete. She yanked her jeans and panties down just enough, squatting low, her face burning with shame. Her stream burst forth instantly, a powerful, hissing torrent that splashed onto the floor with a loud patter. The thick, forceful gush poured out, a relentless rush that puddled beneath her, the sound echoing in the humid air. It went on and on, her bladder unloading in a steady, desperate stream, finally tapering to a slow drip as her body sagged with relief.

Whitney stood, pulling her jeans up, her cheeks flaming as she avoided eye contact. The small puddle glistened in the dim light, but the crowd was too distracted to notice. She slipped back toward the concert, her heart pounding, the music washing over her. Glancing back, she saw the glittery-hatted woman finally reach a stall, her face a mask of relief. Whitney exhaled, her secret safe, the weight of desperation replaced by a strange, shaky calm.

[Johnny Cash]

Credit to baron0001 for these.

[Johnny Cash]

Credit to baron 0001 for the work.