Erotica Writings Mga Nobela at Kwento

I breathed "It's time to be shown in public, right?" It was time. And the way to do it was by uploading them to a few websites online. Easy and completely inexpensive for me. I had a lot of doubts at the beginning because romances are in high demand on those sites, and I have never written one in my life. Epic battles, I did. Dragons and magic, I did. Horror and zombies, I did. But romance and erotica, never. After thorough research on the genre, I wrote an erotic novel myself, with the not-so-much unique name, The rush.

He set the glass down and crossed to me, stopping just close enough that I could smell his cologne dark, expensive, dangerously familiar. “Notebook?” he asked. I lifted the leather-bound book like a shield. My handwriting inside had grown filthier with every page he made me add. He took it from my hands, flipped it open to the newest entry, and read my words aloud in that low, commanding voice. “‘I vow to spread you open and taste how desperate you are for a man you shouldn’t want.’” My breath caught. I’d written it at 3 a.m. last night, fingers trembling, shame and arousal warring until I gave in and put it on paper.

He studied the title - Watching Me, Watching You - then carefully flipped it open. Words leapt up from the page at him. Words that in his current hyper-sensitised state, carried arousing and magical weight: ‘naked’, ‘moist’, ‘distended’. Every letter, every sound in his head, every nuance of meaning seemed to scream to his cock about the body of the writer herself. ‘You can borrow that if you like,’ Diamanda said, looking up briefly from the wafer-thin portable computer notepad she’d pulled out of her other pocket.

Or she might be scrupulously careful, not a hair in sight, and I’ll have to come up with another pretext to tie her up to that four-poster bed. Suddenly, I flash on an idea. What if I “make” Eva write down all her dirtiest fantasies as an assignment? An instant treasury of scripts for future games. I can hear her voice tremble as she reads—Then you bend me over your desk and lube my asshole with the ointment you keep tucked in the drawer for special “lessons”… I love fucking Eva in every hole, but nothing turns me on more than slipping deep inside her sweet, dirty mind.

She’s slipping away—everything feels like it’s underwater, like a dream she can’t wake from. She cries out again, desperate, high-pitched. Endless waves of orgasm ripple through her trembling form, one crashing over the next, relentless, overwhelming. Her limbs flail, her body convulses beneath him, but still he doesn’t stop. Still he pounds. Still he slams. He whispers dirty words against her flushed skin, each syllable igniting her nerve endings like sparks. “Oh, you wanna act like a little slut?” he snarls against her neck, voice dripping with dark amusement. “Then I’ll make it real easy for you, baby.”

I was traveling thousands of miles, leaving my oblivious wife at home, to fuck a young girl I had met online because she enjoyed the stories I wrote. If you asked me why I started writing and publishing erotica on Literotica, I do not believe I could give you a full and satisfactory answer. I had been reading the site for some years, had an idea for a story that I wrote out and, after a very short time hemming and hawing, published it.

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.

Isolde followed soon after, moaning low and grinding through the pleasure. They rested briefly, bodies sticky and warm. Then they used toys. Isolde grabbed a vibrating wand from her bag. She turned it on and pressed the buzzing head against Seraphina's sensitive clit. The strong vibrations made Seraphina cry out. She tried to close her legs but Isolde held them open. She was just getting started. "Please," Seraphina begged after several minutes. "Fuck! It's too much." Isolde smiled. "Just a little longer." She kept the wand in place. Seraphina shook and came again, even harder. Her voice grew hoarse from moaning. Only then did Isolde turn it off and let her rest.

He poured oil lightly at the back of her knees, trailing the fragrant essence down to her heel then the soles of her feet. Bobby then lifted one foot then took each toe gently, rubbing the aromatherapy essence in and around each one. Gina secretly shivered in delight at the stimulation. It felt very erotic. For the first time in all these years of going to massage parlors, she felt that each of her toes were directly connected to her clit. Each time Booby circled and pressed his on her digits, Gina felt her tiny nub twitch until the heat allowed some juice to peep through her pussy lips.

Then I’d stand, bend her over the railing, and thrust into her from behind, her cries echoing across the water as I claimed what’s always been mine. Elena’s breathing grew ragged. She hiked her dress higher, fingers slipping beneath the damp cotton of her panties. Her clit was swollen, slick with arousal. She circled it slowly as she turned pages, lost in Victor’s raw confessions. Last night I wrote her name while I came. Elena. Elena. Elena. If she ever returns, I won’t hold back. I’ll lock the doors, strip her bare, and spend days teaching her body every filthy pleasure. Spreading her ass cheeks and rimming her tight little hole while she fingers herself. Making her watch in the mirror as