Graphic Rape Novels & Stories

His finger shamelessly moved between her core. “Stop this? Why? Did you like it? You loved me…we dreamed together, you, me….us.” He moaned, Grace knew what was scoring. It wasn’t the first time he had forced himself on her. It was always like this. She still couldn’t forget the first time he raped her in her father’s study, then she become his sexual fantasy. He would force himself on her several times, rape her till she was lifeless and covered in her blood. Her breathing came out shallow and irregular.

And I smell of my vomit and blood. My eyes fall on Rose's picture. If I could paint, I would paint every detail of her with my eyes closed. I will never forget her smile, the little freckles on her cheek, her red straight hair, or her green eyes. I have been haunted by images of her as I slept, images of her being raped and stabbed. I feel sore everywhere, I can't feel my hands or feet anymore.

The table rocked beneath their violent rhythm. He fucked her with the same focused intensity with which he painted, a relentless, creative force. Each thrust was a bold stroke, each grind of his hips a blending of color on a palette. His hands were everywhere, gripping, squeezing, painting bruises onto her skin that would bloom later like violent watercolors. He whispered filth into her ear, words that described her body in crude, artistic terms, telling her what a perfect, fuckable masterpiece she was.

I opened I*******m and typed in CV Gallery before I could stop myself. His account loaded, and there they were—his latest posts, as beautiful and haunting as always. Women arched in silk sheets, wrists bound in red rope, eyes blindfolded, mouths open in silent ecstasy. Men on their knees, backs gleaming, bodies offered up to the lens. Couples tangled together, skin on skin, lost in each other. All of them confident, sexual, unashamed. The kind of art that made you feel something deep in your gut—desire, envy, awe.

“If you walk in there with a green band, it means anyone can fuck you however they please. You wouldn’t get further than two steps into the room before someone would have you pinned to the nearest sofa, fucking your ass while someone else pushed their balls in your mouth. Anything goes.” I was beginning to understand that he wasn’t being graphic to be crude. He was being graphic because he was describing sex in its rawest form. No emotional attachment, just bodies coming together in certain ways. It mirrored the descriptions in many of his books. “That sounds exhausting.” He chuckled. “Probably.”

Arms crossed at all times—unless dragging someone out or blocking a door. Content Warning: This story contains themes and depictions of sxual assult, r*pe, non-consensual acts, gr*oming, sx traffcking, and dr*g use. Reader discretion is strongly advised. These topics are part of the narrative and may be distressing or triggering for some individuals. Please take care while reading.

He shoved his huge width into her, stretching her pussy until she thought she would break. "AAHHH! Zane! It's so thick!" "Hold on to me, Lily!" Zane shouted. The Masterpiece of Flesh Zane began to pound into her. This was the steamiest, messiest sex Lily had ever had. Every time he pushed, the paint on their bodies mixed together. Red and gold smeared across his chest and her stomach. The sound of their bodies hitting was wet and loud. Slap. Squelch. Slap. The erotica of the studio was raw. Zane was biting her shoulders, leaving marks that mixed with the red paint. He was pulling her hair, moving her head so he could look into her eyes. He wanted to see her pleasure.

IMPORTANT WARNING: This is an MM (Male/Male) Gay Erotica story with extremely explicit and graphic sexual content. If you prefer MF stories and are uncomfortable with gay romance, please skip this book and move to Story 9 in my collection. 18+ ONLY. Liam’s hand still stung from the slap he’d delivered two days ago. The memory burned hotter than the summer night air clinging to his skin. That arrogant bastard at the gallery opening, tall, dark-haired, with a jaw like carved marble and eyes that screamed 'I own everything I touch' had grabbed him by the waist and kissed him like he had every right. No warning. Just lips crashing down, demanding, tasting of expensive whiskey and pure dominance.

she breathed out slowly, willing to agree to take the temporary reprieve. He rose to his feet. “Don’t think to play me tomorrow, Aislen Carter,” he warned her. “I have moral objections to rape because my mate was traumatized by sexual violence, so I have seen first-hand the damage that it causes. But I am, by profession, someone who damages others, and if you make me choose between you and my mate, I will cross the line.” He flipped back the cloth that covered the tray to reveal a range of savage looking, spike covered, large, and thick dildos, designed not for pleasure, but for pain. “If you make me.”

“NO” Rita’s protest rang in the entire penthouse when he tears her panties and thrusts his aching member in her to hilt at once. She couldn’t believe she was being raped and strangled to death at the same time. Her entire body shook with his every thrust as he mounted her like a beast, not caring for hurting her at the most sensitive places. Patrick Griffith has lost himself once again behind the veil of evil and his crazed personality took the charge, destroying whatever piece came in hand. Right now, he was destroying a life with no clue of what he was doing.