Dog Licking Clit Novels & Stories

“Oh… Lucien,” I moan, his name as he circles his thumb faster. I move my hips, with the rhythm of his finger. “Fuck… Maya,” he mutters, watching me squirt, his eyes dark with desire. He lowers his head, replacing his hands with his tongue. My eyes roll back in pleasure as his groan vibrates against my core. He continues to lap on my juice, his tongue stroking over my cunt until I can’t take it anymore. He stops between my thighs, and without warning, pushes a finger inside me. I cry out, my hips buck off the bed. “Maya,” he moans, his voice rough, “you’re soaking wet… so fucking wet.” He pulls his hand away, and my body betrays me instantly. Then he brings his finger to his mouth, licking the juice off while never breaking eye contact. Fuck, that turns me on. I can’t take the torture anymore. I grab his hand and press it back between my thighs. I see his face curl into a smirk. He finds this amusing. “You want me?” *** Three years ago, Maya defied her family’s objections and married Ethan, becoming his Luna. Although Ethan wasn’t her fated mate, Maya believed that love was stronger than destiny. But one day, when Maya finally receives the joyful news that she’s pregnant, she rushes to share it with her husband, only to see him returning with another woman in his arms. The woman is his fated mate. As Maya’s world collapses, she discovers she’s carrying twins, while Ethan’s true mate claims to be pregnant with his child. Betrayed, heartbroken, and stripped of everything, Maya decides to leave the pack and rebuild her life… until the man from her past returns to claim what was once his.

Georgia Brooks, the notorious, troublesome tomboy is the caretaker of Clark Brown, the mysterious, cold man who is an undercover billionaire. Georgia's motive is to uncover him and just make him happy. But what when secrets are revealed and the badass tomboy is close to tears? Join them on this rocky road of adventures which includes their occasional fights and revenge, stolen kisses, trip to a circus, journey to England, landing in jail and much more! Excerpt from a chapter : His lips curled in disdain and just when he was about to unwrap the towel, I quickly turned around showing my back to him. What the fucking hell? What if I saw his thing? "Don't you care? Like honestly, couldn't you just order like your usual self to get the hell out of your bedroom or just . . . turn around for you to change? You could have at least warned me that you were freeing your willy, I would have closed my eyes!" I rambled and felt myself feeling all jittery again. He didn't reply and I could mentally picture him scoffing or rolling his pretty eyes. A part of me which never saw a grown man's buddy down there was curious as to how it looked. Was it really long and monstrous like a huge sausage they describe in erotic scenes? Was it soft like a banana or hard like a radish? Was is it like spring that when you poke it, it would go wagging like a dog's tail? A teeny little peek would do no harm . . .

Three years after I died, my mother sent me twenty dollars for living expenses. Three years before that—the first time I ever asked my family for money—she said to me, offhand, "Sometimes I think you're just putting on an act. What's so unsanitary about a thirty-cent boxed meal? And why can't you wear a five-dollar down jacket? Face it, you're just more high-maintenance than your little brother." Later, when I needed twenty dollars to buy some cheap medicine for my stomachache, she blocked me immediately and cut off all contact—along with every relative we had. "Don't contact me anymore. I'm clearly not a good mother. I can't afford to give my son a life of luxury." But for my younger brother, who had just started high school, she spared no expense—renting him a three-bedroom apartment. Even the family dog got its own room. In the end, on the day my brother became the top scorer in the state, she finally remembered me. She took me off her block list and transferred twenty dollars. "It's only twenty dollars. Was it really worth giving your family the silent treatment for three whole years?" What she never knew was this— On the night my stomach ruptured, three years ago, I had already died. I couldn't afford to go to the hospital. I froze to death in the snow.

At my lowest point that year, I took a job at a pet shop, where I was assigned to take care of a "gentle-tempered" silver-white Alaskan Malamute. Every time I went near him, he would lift his head and bury his nose against my chest, breathing in low, rough sounds that felt disturbingly like a grown man holding himself back. Especially when my hand brushed through his beautiful fur, his body would heat up, and his eyes would darken and burn with unmistakable possessiveness. Thinking he was sick, I rushed to find the shop owner. The owner gave me a long, meaningful glance. "He's not sick. But he only acts like this with you. "You need to bathe him, give him a full-body massage, and try giving him a little kiss. Otherwise, he might lose control." I had my doubts about the whole thing, but I didn't really have a choice. I went along with it anyway. Eventually, I told the friend who had gotten me this job everything that had been happening. After she heard me out, she went quiet for a second. Then, she looked at me strangely and said, "Have you ever thought that maybe you're not looking after a dog at all? What if he's actually a werewolf who can take human form, and he's in heat, using pheromones to mess with you because he wants to… You know, sleep with you?"

At another Sunday dinner at the Bellandi estate, Luca Bellandi's assistant, Ava Marino, was sitting in my seat. It was the first chair to Luca's right at the long walnut table, the seat everyone in Chicago's underworld knew belonged to Mrs. Bellandi. Ava sat there as if she had been born into it, her pale wrist brushing Luca's sleeve while she poured his wine. I stood in the doorway and looked at him. "She's in my seat. You don't have anything to say?" Luca raised his eyes. "You were late. Don't blame someone else for sitting down first. There are empty chairs over there. Sit if you want. If not, get out." The dining room went dead quiet, and before I could answer, his thoughts slipped into my ears. [Vivi, don't go. Come sit beside me. Tell them it's your seat. Tell me you still want to be my wife.] [Please get mad. Please care. Say you need me, and I'll give you the whole world.] In the past, those soft, trembling thoughts would have been enough. I would've swallowed the insult and stayed beside him like a loyal dog that didn't know when to leave. This time, I didn't. I slipped the wedding ring off my finger and laid it on the table. "If the Bellandi family can't even keep a wife's seat for me, then I guess this family doesn't need a wife anymore. Luca, let's get divorced."

What will you do when you are fucking in love with someone who doesn't love you back and then woke up the next day forced to marry another girl you don't even know or love? "Where the hell have you been, Hannah?" I turned around as she yelled from my back, full of hate in her eyes, grabbing my arm, pulling me inside, and laying me on the couch violently. I was shocked by her presumption. "You're still my fucking wife, Hannah. You're mine, don't ever forget that," she leaned on me as she held both my hands, feeling her grip trembling in rage. I was motionless and speechless. "What? is she great? Is she making you cum more than me? Are you not satisfied with my performance? I can do it again, you fucking whore" her face was dark, her voice cracking and hatred in every word she spits out. She forcibly slips her finger inside my andies and strokes my pussy, feeling my wetness. I slapped her hard. I was hurt by what she said. I could never imagine those words coming out from her. Where's the Ally I have known? Everything is my fault. I can't blame her if she started to treat me this way. I might hurt her ego. Even though we agreed not to intrude on others' lives still, it's not going to work the way we want it to. "Fucked Hannah, you are my wife. I can do whatever I want!" she shouted as she ripped my clothes and held me tighter. Ally got even angrier when I slapped her, struggling, but I didn't have a match for her. Ally kissed me forcibly and started to touch me out of love, stroking my breast, playing her fingers into my clit, burning with lust.

“Don’t tell me you’re starting to get scared again,” he whispered before returning his lips to my sensitive nipples. His hand slid lower, shifting my panties aside, the fabric brushing against my skin. “Someone might walk in,” I managed to say, though my voice was barely audible. “Forget everyone and focus on us,” he murmured. His fingers began to tease me, running over my clit with a deliberate slowness that made my breath hitch. “I love how you’re always so wet for me,” he said, his tone filled with raw desire. As his pace quickened, his words urged me on. “Don’t hold back your moans. I want to hear all of it.” The knowledge that his office was soundproof was the only reassurance I had, but even then, I couldn’t trust my own voice. My body arched in response as he trailed kisses along my neck, his fingers moving with an intoxicating rhythm. “I love how your body reacts to my touch,” he murmured against my skin. “I could fuck you all day.” “Yes,” I moaned, unable to stop myself. “Yes, what?” he teased, his fingers moving even faster, pushing me closer to the edge. “Don’t stop, Alex,” I gasped. ********************************************************** Six years ago, Alex broke me, leaving me humiliated, pregnant, and abandoned. He chose Camila, his flawless childhood friend, while I was left to pick up the shattered pieces of my life. But I survived, and for my son, I built a life I’m proud of. Now, Alex is after me, but stunned by the woman I’ve become, and the son who bears his resemblance. When he asked about his father, my son’s innocent reply said it all: "Mommy said he's dead." I couldn’t have said it better myself.

**WARNING: VERY EXPLICIT 21+** + + My name doesn't matter. My filthy urges do. I came home from work. The bedroom door was half open. My husband was there, pounding into some woman on our bed, his cock slamming in and out, deep and rough. I should have screamed. Instead my pussy clenched hard. I stood frozen, watching every thrust. My hand slipped under my skirt on its own. Fingers circled my clit as he fucked her right in front of me. He glanced over. “You like watching my cock stretch her?” I rubbed faster. “Don’t stop,” I whispered. Then I came shaking, eyes locked on him pounding her. *** 69 Dripping Fantasies is sixty-nine raw taboo stories. Wives catching husbands cheating and getting soaked instead of angry. Step-family secrets whispered in quiet. Glory holes that fill fast. Honeymoon wife swaps sparked by one dumb dare. Older rich men taking total control. Professors crossing every forbidden line. Husband’s best friends sneaking in. Strangers who follow, then fuck hard. Group nights in dark clubs. Cucks cleaning up every last drop. *** I’m on my knees. One thick cock buried deep in my throat, making me gag. The woman behind me squeezes my tits until it hurts so good. Her tongue between my ass, teasing, no cock has filled my pussy or ass yet. But I’m trembling, dripping, seconds from squirting everywhere. Two massive black cocks wait their turn, and her presence makes it filthier… hotter. I never knew I craved this so badly. *** No soft romance. Just dirty yeses where no should be. Sixty-nine stories. Sixty-nine surrenders. Read if you’re brave. These pages might leave you wet, jealous, horny… or secretly think of your own filthy fantasies when nobody’s watching. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

WARNING: HEAVY SMUT AHEAD!!! Mature audiences only! Proceed with caution! ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ “Please,” she whispered, desperation cracking her voice. “Please, Chase.”   “Begging already?” His voice was cruel, his fingers circling faster, pushing her to the edge. “I'm not even nearly done with you yet.”   She squeezed her eyes shut, the recruit’s muffled cries and the whip’s crack filling her ears, amplifying her need. Chase’s fingers were relentless, stroking her clit, and dipping inside just enough to tease.   “Please,” she whimpered, louder now, her hands gripping his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I won’t lie again. I’ll be good. Please, let me cum.”   He chuckled, his lips brushing her neck. “Not yet, baby. Fight it.”   Her body screamed, every nerve on fire, the recruit’s struggles mirroring her own. The girl’s master groaned, close to release, as Lila’s whip landed again and again on her ass.   Emma’s head felt like it was about to explode under the pressure, her thighs shook with the effort to conceal it, her pleas spilling out. “Please, Chase, I can’t hold it any longer… I need it."   "Don't. You. Dare. Come." ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Picture this: A CEO pinning his partner's daughter over his desk, whispering rules that chain her soul while his cock claims her body. Or a werewolf's claws raking skin in the moonlit woods, rutting her senseless till she's howling his name. We mix it up... sweet, slow-burn romances that melt into tender fucks and whispered "I love yous," flipping to the dark side with BDSM bites, non-con edges that blur fear into filthy want, and horror vibes where ghosts fuck you cold then hot. Your panties? Ruined. Your cravings? Fed. And yet, you'll still be here begging for more. Dive in if you're brave enough.

Three years after getting out of prison, Zoe Sanders finally found me in an underground fight club. The moment she saw me, she grabbed me by the collar and punched me across the face, her eyes burning red with fury. "Henry Goldman, who gave you the nerve to disappear like this? "And what the hell have you done to yourself?" I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and laughed carelessly. "One punch, one hundred thousand. "If you’re still angry, feel free to keep going. I could use the money for this year’s rent." Her fists trembled uncontrollably, but her voice softened. "Come home with me... apologize to Ronald Green. "He’s always been kind-hearted. He already forgave you for framing him." Her gaze swept over the scars covering my body, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. "Look at yourself. Covered in blood like this... what’s the difference between you and a stray dog digging through garbage?" My body stiffened. Then I turned and walked away. What she did not know was this: In prison, blood and violence were the only ways I learned to survive. "Don’t forget," she shouted after me, "I’m still your fiancée!" My footsteps stopped. How could I forget? Three years ago, on the night of our engagement, Ronald drugged me and sent me to a black-market auction. I was stripped of all dignity and sold like merchandise. That night, I became the laughingstock of the entire city. And the person who signed the papers that sold me… was my fiancée herself.