Emotional Stories Novels & Stories

It was about emotional manipulation in general, about affecting how people felt and changing the emotional landscape around me. And if I could make people feel desire, maybe I could make them feel other things too.

She brought both breasts back to my penis and wet them again, and brought them back to my mouth. The next moment, she straddled me again, and checked my bondage's for tightness. I could definitely not move my hands or my legs. "Do you know what I read recently?" "No, what?" "I read a story that you posted online. It was called 'I want you to feed me'." I stared blankly,I'd forgotten that she read my sex stories online, sometimes, especially this one. "Uhhh yes well..." "Do you remember writing the story, do you remember what it was about?" As she questioned me, she was humping her open pûssy over the head and shaft of my cock.

he asked. The question hit hard. But this time, I didn’t freeze. I swallowed once, then answered, “No.” My voice was steady. “But emotion is what makes people remember.” I held his gaze. “They may forget statistics. They may forget features. But they won’t forget how something made them feel.” His eyes didn’t leave mine. “And what makes your story different?” he asked. There it was again the pressure. But it didn’t crush me this time. It pushed me.

Camila stepped inside carefully— And froze. The entire room was filled with paintings. Hundreds of them. Every wall. Every corner. Every canvas. All of them painted the same woman. A beautiful blonde girl with large green eyes. Some paintings showed her smiling. Others laughing. Crying. Sleeping. Dancing. There were so many emotions trapped inside each piece that Camila’s chest immediately tightened. Love. Obsession. Heartbreak. Grief. Every single painting screamed pain. Mateo remained near the doorway silently while Camila slowly walked deeper into the room.

If Max has started hating Olivia, how can they build a relation "Olivia is a good girl. You heard her mother, she wasn't in a good mood today." His mother spok Max picked up his glass that had some red content in it and took a few sips. "What's my business with her mood? I'm only asking Emily not to get infected, or do you want her to grow up as an idiot with mood fluctuation in an event, as well?" He a Her sister chuckled and tugged his arm, "brother, that was rude." She

His eyes were bristling with anger while he said this because he couldn’t tolerate Caroline’s rude behavior. “You have time to decide till tomorrow! And if your answer is NO then you can tell me RIGHT NOW!” “I never said my answer is NO. I’ll think and tell by tomorrow.” Caroline rushed out of the office with attitude as she yelled at my dad. ***** “What a dumb human! Money cant buy happiness??? Money can buy anything! And if you have money then why do you need happiness anyways. These emotions/feelings are such a waste of time!” Caroline mumbled in anger in her office.

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?”

I only hope that you'll feel something real and strong between every word and line when you get down with it. And as a writer, I've always believed that stories are meant to reflect raw and unfiltered emotions we sometimes carry deep inside us, and within us. They're not just about two perfect people falling for one another under perfect sculpted circumstance, but two flawed people figuring out their own pain, hopes and fear, then navigating it between themselves. And this book is a statement to that knowledge and believe.

Pinky squinted to read it, her eyes tracing the loops and crosses. "Collection of short stories for ladies," the title read. "Stories of desire, of awakening, of the first time." Pinky blinked, her eyes widening as she read on. The handwriting was feminine, secretive, as if the writer were sharing her most guarded thoughts with only the pages. It was a confession. A revelation. As she began to read.