Braces Fiction Stories Novels & Stories

I stood in the freezing hallway, feeling the cold seep into my bones. ... I spent the whole night sitting in a hotel room, numb. When the sun rose, I saw the deep, bloody crescents my nails had carved into my palms. I grabbed my phone, scrolling through the texts between Sheila and I. Three years ago, I drained my savings to send her off to art school in Francoria, covering every last penny of her tuition and living expenses. She clung to me with tears streaming down her face as she said, "Erick, when I'm back, we're tying the knot. You're the only one for me, forever!"

He gestured toward the narrow aisle between fiction and children’s books. “Storage wasted on that back room. And don’t get me started on the courtyard out back. Prime square footage doing nothing but growing weeds.” Before she could fire back, the kids started filing in for storytime, backpacks thumping as they dropped onto the colorful rug. Elena shot him a warning look and moved to the front. She picked up *The Adventures of Benny the Bookworm*, her voice shifting into the warm, animated tone she used for the little ones.

Marcus led Grace through the maze of corridors beneath the megachurch....past empty Sunday school rooms, past the baptismal changing areas, down to the storage basement where old sound equipment and unused furniture gathered dust. No one would come down here on a Sunday morning. No one would hear them. "On your knees," Marcus commanded, releasing her wrist. Grace sank down onto the cold concrete floor, and Marcus freed his cock...still hard despite having just come, still massive and intimidating. "Open your mouth."

he murmured. I looked down at my chest and saw the way my nipples were poking through the lace bra. His hand found my back, and he unhooked the bra, allowing it to fall to the floor. He wasted no time latching onto one, taking the full weight of it into his mouth while fondling the other with his free hand. I arched my back, grabbing his head as his tongue skillfully sucked my breast. He moaned between the sucking. He pulled away slightly and whispered in a hoarse voice, "I could go all day sucking those round breasts. They're fucking soft."

There was one solitary, big book on a low table between them. "The title of the tale is The Binding of Autumn," he began, his voice an entrancing whisper just in harmony with the shriek of the fire. “It's the tale of a harvest god who offers a mortal woman a choice: one night of absolute freedom for one year of unimaginable riches for her people." He didn't move as his eyes met hers. "The consent is the matter at hand. It must be freely bestowed, not coerced, and whispered three times into the skin of his throat." “Do you have any idea what sort of story you're going to be reading me tonight?”

She closed her notebook immediately, giving me her full attention. "I want to write," I continued, the words gaining strength as they came out. "Fiction. Intense stories, dark worlds, romances where women like me can exist without being defined only by the pain they suffered. Characters who are more than their scars, who can use what they’ve lived as power instead of just as weight." Dr. Vance stayed quiet for a moment, and I recognized her silence — not the controlled professional one of someone formulating a therapeutically appropriate response, but the one of someone genuinely moved by something.

"Back story" Isla Vance had always been the stronger sister. Her younger sister, Elara, was a beautiful, bright, but delicate soul, struggling since childhood with a rare, degenerative blood disease. Isla, working three jobs and putting her own future on hold, poured every cent and ounce of energy into Elara's care, fighting against hospital bills and worsening diagnoses.

Let him see. Marcus’s jaw tightened. His hands gripped the arms of his chair like he was fighting gravity. They kept talking. About her copywriting years — writing other people’s words until she forgot her own. About how he’d drifted into papers and lectures instead of stories. The words got heavier. More honest. Every truth pulled something tighter in her chest. Her calf was still pressed against his leg. Neither of them had moved it. The heat from his body seeped through his pants and made her ache.

My prize. I approached, heart pounding. I had a silk scarf in my purse. A planned tool. “You’re mine tonight,” I whispered, tying his wrists loosely to the bedposts. A symbolic binding. He could break it with a twitch, but the game was the point. He watched, eyes gleaming.

He felt fast action was vital,so he tried to twist the cyclist's head back to it's proper position,BREAKING THE BIKER'S NECK! I don't own any of this stories. I found them in some creepy books. I'm thinking of writing my own scary stories, but not anytime soon. You can send me your short stories for a feature if you feel like it. Thanks for reading. Enjoy!