Libro Erotico Novels & Stories

Disclaimer: Explicit erotica concept, raw and unfiltered desires. Triggering themes. Lesbian content. Do not go any further if you are not ready for the heat that comes with it. Rated 18+ --- Priya Walsh was dreaming again. She could feel it even inside the dream, that specific awareness that sits at the back of your mind telling you this isn't real while everything happening in front of you feels more real than anything you experienced while you were awake. Brooklyn's hands were in her hair.

"Take me right here, right now." His hands gripped my hips, pulling me against him. I could feel his erection pressing against my stomach, and I knew he wanted me as badly as I wanted him. I shifted my weight, grinding against him, and I heard his sharp intake of breath. "Emma," he growled, his voice a warning. "You're playing with fire." I smiled, a slow and seductive curve of my lips. "Then burn me, Damien," I said, my voice a breathy whisper. "Burn me until I'm nothing but ashes in your arms."

The air in the library was thick with the scent of old books and the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Sadile Marconi, her fiery red hair cascading over her shoulders like a river of flames, sat at a secluded table, her green eyes darting between the pages of her textbook and the clock on the wall. The numbers seemed to mock her, ticking away the minutes until her next class, a class she was dangerously close to failing.

That caused my eyebrows to raise and my cheeks to blush. "Well... If you like that mix, maybe 'Story of O' by Pauline Réage, 'The Lover' by Marguerite Duras, 'Tropic of Cancer' by Henry Miller, or 'Delta of Venus' by Anaïs Nin could be recommended," I suggested, my face burning. These were considered significant works of erotic literature, but at the same time, they were quite scandalous. "Did you enjoy them?" he asked with a slightly huskier voice. "I like forming my own opinions."

I say hiding the book behind me. "Okay now, I obviously have to know." He says with a smirk. "It's nothing," I say smiling. "Oh it's something. Oh my God it's Porn?" He says flat out laughing now. "No it's not, I say. It's a romance novel with occasional sex scenes." I say explaining. He reaches out and collects the book from hand. "It's say erotica right here, so it's obviously porn." He says laughing. "Okay maybe it's an erotic romance book." I say with a blush creeping up my neck.

“Yes. Exactly like that.” His erection pulsed, pressing painfully against his zipper. His eyes roamed over her shamelessly, devouring the sight of her spread open. He had asked for this under the pretense of art, but nothing about the look in his eyes was detached or professional. It was raw. Hungry. Lena shifted slightly, and the movement only made things worse. Damien’s gaze locked onto her core, and she felt goosebumps rise all over her skin. Her body betrayed her, wetness began to gather, subtle but visible, glistening faintly in the soft light.

Still, doubt creeps in as I focus on her eyes, “Is this the right thing for you though?” She looks at me for a long minute, before finding my hand and leading it down her body. Her boobs, soft and perky, her flat stomach, and finally deeper. Past her panties and I feel her wetness. My hand is soaked, and she groans when my hand comes into contact with her dripping pussy. The sound is so sexy, so raw. “Just from that kiss, my love. We can talk about whether it's right tomorrow.” I don't need any other confirmation. I grab her.

Something aching to be molded. I met him in my Tuesday night workshop. "Erotics of Language"—a curated space for writers who wanted to learn how to use sensuality in storytelling. Most came in with curiosity or thinly veiled hunger. He came in with a notebook gripped like a lifeline and questions trembling on his lips. I noticed him in the third session. He waited until everyone had left to speak to me. “I—um—can I ask you something… off the record?” I folded my arms, tilted my head. “You just did.”

You must read, so you'll know what we know. Loving books as she did, Madeleine had soon forgotten her disappointment. The private library was a wondrous hoard of knowledge, and as arousing in its way as the long, shared hours of yesterday. Each book was a classic of pornography. As she read — and read and read and read - Madeleine soon grew both learned and fevered. Every picture seemed to remind her of the touch of Delrina’s lips, or the way Laurelina’s fingertips could seek out, and find, the most discreet and receptive of pleasure-nodes, then tantalise them to the very edge of madness. Every line or paragraph of uncensored prose seemed to conjure up the taste of Nadia’s sweat.