Eroitic Stories Novels & Stories

“You had a book about those the day I first met you.” His posture seemed to straighten ever so slightly the moment I said that, as if he were surprised I remembered that detail. “That’s right, I suppose I did.” “What else did it say? Was it a book of folklore?” Eric sighed. “It… was an old book, and very outdated—to the point that I’m not entirely sure how much of it was true or not. I wish I could sate that curiosity, but…” he hesitated, “I would do you a great disservice to spread something that might be wrong.” He thrummed his fingers against the table. “If it’s history you want, perhaps I could interest you in the legend of the Moon Goddess, or… or maybe the alpha king who was cursed by

My voice was shaky as I spoke. I saw her smiling before she finally spoke, I black eyes were shining with something I couldn't quite name. No… the opposite of what I was wanting to hear from her… your writing was loving and powerful. I love your story because I love erotic stories myself and I'd like to talk more about it with you. “So are you free this weekend Come to my place Sunday at eight.” I felt my heartbeat increase is it the test that I don't want her to give me that she wants to give me in her house? Or is it something else? I asked myself.

Hi, I will not say much. This is an erotic story that contains a mom/aunt/son. As you know, I write about Aunt/Mom’s stories. Please support me by reading my other stories, too. Also, you can support me on my P*****n: p*****n.com/laxu00 Story starts

More, and more. End of Book 1

“My after-class project. My desperate little slut who traded her dignity for a letter on a page.” His words were filth, and they poured over her like hot oil, searing her shame and transforming it into fuel. Her climax built with terrifying speed, coiling from the very brutality of his fucking. She was sobbing, pleading, begging for it, for him, for the oblivion he offered. “Please…” “Come for me, Elara,” he commanded, his own control fraying, his thrusts becoming wild, uncoordinated. “Come on your professor’s desk. Show me you accept your terms.”

But if it's me, I can't forgive him. Erigor laughed. "You took that seriously. It's just a story and it's not true. Listeners want a story with a happy ending. But I can say that what the woman in the story did was not stupid. It was true love." He said to me that he seemed to be praising me. Yes, because people before are naive and stupid. I wanted to say that but I didn't voice it. He might wonder why I am so affected by the story when it is not true.

The slap I wanted to give him this time around didn't escape him; it landed right on his face, perfectly. I stared at the artifact. It was a sculpture of a fragile lady in a worldly bent position, like when your partner is about to serve you from the back. The sculpture's legs were straight; the lady’s back arched in a manner that spelled out a lot: sexual conceit and exploring the satisfaction that comes with being intimate with someone you love. Her hands were spread wide above her head, while her mouth was open in sexual satisfaction. I rolled my eyes at the sculpture before I left the place. And do you know the worst part of all? He named the damn sculpture after me.

Serik couldn’t break the land. He couldn’t destabilize the structure. He couldn’t hijack the bond. So now he’s doing the one thing we can’t block with force. He’s planting stories. And stories, unlike pressure, don’t announce themselves when they arrive. They wait. They spread. And they fracture things from the inside long before anyone realizes they’ve taken root.