Romans & histoires Erotic Stories Written By Women

EMMA The walk up the stairs felt like a fever dream. My legs were still shaky from the two massive orgasms Sarah had ripped out of me downstairs, and my inner thighs were slick with a mixture of my own juices and her saliva. Jake’s cum had dried in streaks on my skin, but my pussy was already throbbing again, aching to be filled. Sarah led us by the hand—her full, naked body glowing under the hallway light, heavy tits bouncing with every step, ass jiggling enticingly. Jake followed close behind, his thick cock still rock-hard and bouncing, glistening from fucking Sarah’s cunt.

What had started with her emailing the secret email account I had set up to handle my erotic writing and publishing, escalated quickly. I learned, over a series of exchanges, that she loved my stories and I had inspired her to write her own. I quickly looked up her writing and found it incredibly well written, extremely sexy and revolving around older men and 18 year old girls. What became obvious pretty quickly was that she had based the male characters in her stories on the men in my own, and, she admitted, the girls on herself. 'You know,' I had written to her in an email, 'that's interesting. I base the men in my stories on myself. And if you write your characters based on you, then it's

My thighs part a little wider under the table. Derek pushes two fingers inside me. Thick. Deep. He curls them immediately, stroking that sensitive spot while his thumb keeps working my clit. The wet sounds are faint but unmistakable to me. My breathing quickens. My tits rise and fall with every shallow breath. “God, you’re tight,” he murmurs, eyes locked on my face. “And dripping. Does your husband know how much of a slut you become when you’re turned on?” “Yes,” I whisper, hips subtly rocking against his hand. “He loves it. He loves knowing other men want me. Want to fuck me.”

With so many talented erotic romance writers popping up everywhere, she was lucky to have been given the chance to publish her work on the international stage. Her writing career had started back in college—ghostwriting blog posts, penning steamy serialized stories for online platforms, just to make extra cash. But the spark had always been there. The love for language. The obsession with tension, with heat, with the slow-burn ache of want. Then, four years ago, when she and Belinda moved abroad, she decided to test the waters. See if her stories could resonate with a foreign audience. Well, it did. Two books later, she had a modest but loyal readership, foreign royalties, and a pen name tha

But she had to. She slowly walked over to the bed and sat down. Her hands trembled as she opened the cover. She flipped through the pages, past the short poems, the little love scenes, and the silly dialogues she had written just for fun. Then she stopped at page forty. Her stomach dropped. That was where the first real erotic story started. She stared at the words. Her face burned. It was something she wrote late one night, out of boredom… or curiosity. She never meant for anyone to see it.

Shaking my head, I held out my hand for Grace and helped her get up. “Thank you,” I nodded. “I’m sorry but I can’t come. And if you want to fuck, you can choose from my friends to have their cocks fill in your cunt. I don’t fuck twice.” Then I walked away to go to my car. I massaged my forehead then stalked Erica again. I noticed that all of her pictures characterized her as a prim and proper lady, her clothes were perfectly fit on her body, it was so good, alluring, and addicting but not to the point that you will lust over her.

One woman was on top, rolling her hips in perfect figure-eights while the other arched her back and gripped her thighs, their swollen clits rubbing visibly with every slippery movement. Elena’s eyes darkened with lust as she watched them. “Look how beautiful they look, baby. Their clits rubbing together like that… I want to feel you like this. Come here.” She pulled me on top of her, spreading her long legs wide. She guided one of my legs between hers until our soaked pussies met. The moment our slippery folds touched, a jolt of pure pleasure shot through me. Elena moaned softly and started rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles, exactly like the women on the screen.

I felt her arch just a fraction into my touch, her perfume wrapping around me… something expensive and filthy, like jasmine and pure sex. We reached the rare books room, the air thick with the smell of aged paper, polished wood, and now… the faint, sweet musk of two women who were already wet for each other. I pulled the volume from its shelf, handling it carefully, and handed it to her. Our fingers brushed… and stayed. The spark was instant, electric, shooting down my spine and making my cunt throb so hard I had to bite my lip.

The messages were right there. Dozens of them. To a woman named “Lila.” Young, from the pictures, barely twenty-five, with a tight body, perky tits, and no stretch marks. Pictures of her in lingerie. Pictures of Marco’s cock. Videos of them fucking in hotel rooms. Promises that he was going to “finally leave the cow” soon. I felt like I was going to be sick. He was actively cheating on me — the wife who had given him five beautiful children and sacrificed her body for their family.