Fictional Sex Stories Novels & Stories

“Absolutely, Master, I am yours. Have you never even fantasized about having a slave before?” “The last woman I was with was my wife; we never played any fantasy games. I have not touched anyone in ten years.” I felt the pang of loss begin to grow in my chest again. “Master, I am so sorry. I never knew you were married. May I make a suggestion that might help you to understand what you have gotten yourself into?” “I would be glad to hear anything you have to say.” She then suggested a couple of websites for me to read. Stories and such to let me know what I might want to try.

It took almost three hours of typing and his encouragement until I had fully unloaded my crappy life onto his shoulders. As he started to tell me more about himself, I found that he was a 55-year-old man who lived about five hundred miles away from me and had led a not dissimilar life. He had been married and divorced twice, and his current wife was not sexual at all. He had been using the chat room as an outlet for his sexual frustrations for two years now and occasionally wrote erotic stories for an online site. All his stories were about his fantasies of having sex with another man, although he claimed he had only tried it twice—neither time was all that satisfying. I asked him to direct

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.

I have a class to attend. ‎I scurried out of bed and dashed into the bathroom to take a shower. ‎I know what we just did is forbidden and a taboo, but I don't feel guilty for it. Not one bit. In fact, I so much loved it. Who would regret having hot sex with a guy who has a big dick and knows how to fuck very well? ‎**Author's note** ‎Are they going to keep doing it till their parents come back? ‎Let's keep going. ‎Thanks so much for your support 💯 ‎

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. REMEMBER: The world of fiction where the characters of my story reside is void of realities of HIV and STI. In the real world where we live in, HIV and STIs exist. The story is merely an escape from that world, so that I can release my subconcious, which is full of crazy and messy sex fantasies. The scenes in this story should never be recreated in real life. Guys, never ever attempt barebacking, rape or other unsafe sex ac

“I want you to write about these topics for me. These are sexual content, and I want a woman’s opinion on this.” I looked inside and saw a detailed topic about sexuality and women’s thinking. “But…” “Aoife, until now, men can discuss things easily, but for women, we were lost. I want you to write something that a woman wants, what she thinks. What’s her fantasy to reach her peak of sexuality?” I was gawking at him as he talked casually about sex and orgasms. “Aoife?” “Yes, but how can I write something like this? I am a storyteller.”

He held his glistening fingers to her lips, and Rissa, completely lost to the haze of the night, leaned forward and licked them clean, her eyes never leaving his. But the ache wasn't gone; it had only sharpened. She reached out, grabbing his hand again, and guided his fingers back to her soaking hole. She began to ride his hand, pushing herself down onto his fingers while Ronan started finger fucking her with a speed that stole the air from her lungs. "Please... Ronan..." she whimpered, her head tossing from side to side. She was losing control, her moans becoming loud and uninhibited in the quiet suite. Every thrust of his hand sent another jolt through her until she was squirting again, he

My moans echoed off the stone, raw and unfiltered, and bouncing back to me as if the crypt itself were moaning with me. He watched through the lens, eyes dark, pupils blown wide with lust and something colder—calculation. “Tell me your worst secret, Elara,” he said, voice low and coaxing. “The one you’ll never print.” I gasped, hips rocking into my own hand, thighs trembling. “I… I came to expose you,” I confessed, the words spilling like wine. “The abuse stories. The missing girls from the Boston church. The rumors of payoffs, of girls who vanished after private ‘counseling.’ I thought you were—”

I stepped off the boat to the wooden dock, and the warm night air hit me like a slap. My heart was pounding hard already, and my pussy was getting wet just from the smell of the ocean mixed with that thick, musky scent of sex that hung in the air. This was The Cock Fest. No names, no talking about feelings, and no tomorrow. It was just pure fucking for a whole week. I had dreamed about this for months, fingering myself every night, thinking about big cocks stretching me open until I couldn’t walk straight. Now it was real.

Then he flipped me onto my stomach, yanked my hips up, and pushed back inside in one long stroke. This wasn’t the couch sex. This was deeper, meaner. He fucked me like he was trying to imprint himself. One hand fisted in my hair, the other reaching around to rub my clit in tight, ruthless circles. Every thrust slapped against my ass, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. “Tell me,” he panted, voice rough. “Tell me how long you’ve been touching yourself thinking about this cock.” “Since I was nineteen,” I gasped, pushing back to meet him. “In the shower. In my bed. Once while you were driving me to campus and I had my hand in my panties under my skirt.”