Lit Errotica Novels & Stories

Eros sighed, and I nodded. As we headed up the stairs, he turned to me and said, “Erin is a Clurichaun, a solitary fairy that asked me for a job many years ago, and she is feisty and can cause mischief especially after she is deep in her cups, so be leery about roaming around late at night because that is when she indulges in her whiskey. I believe that she's already into her cups.” “Okay,” I replied and watched Samson rush past our feet shouting excuse me.

butt and his seeds were flowing out of her, her white shrug was fully covered with her blood stain, samrat was staring at her close eyes, he moved his hand to pulled away loose hairs which were falling on her face, he touched her cheeks with back of his hand and noticed that her body was burning hot, Samrat pulled back his hand and picked up a jar filled with cold water from side table and emptied it whole on her face, Erica startle awake gasping for air and tried to get up from bed but failed, Samrat sat beside her and helped her sit straight, pushing her hairs back he hold her face in his palm, staring into her eyes he looked down at her, she was breathing heavily her eyes were filled wit

It didn’t say anything about the animals or people of that land. Erica got tired and bored and closed the book, “This is so damn boring,” she sighed and closed the book and pushed it away. “May be you can put yourself back,” she talked to the book and then looked around, she felt ashamed, what if someone saw her talking to a book. Talking to a book? Damn it, Erica quickly got up and rushed towards her bag, she pulled out her diary from it and sighed. She was so caught p in all the drama that she forgot about it.

If I can’t let go, I’ll be poisoned by grief. “Stop thinking, do it!” the voice is more aggressive. “Eric wants it. Eric needs it.” I get off Lorenz and rush to the hotel room door, my head spins. “Rita?” Lorenz asks. I leave and return to my room. “You failed!” the eyeball says. “You’re weak. Too weak for your boy.” I ignore it. If I shut out the noise, maybe things will get better. I throw the broken bottle in the bin and lay on my bed.

The assigned text, Bataille’s Erotism, was a descent into philosophical darkness. It spoke of the sacred and the profane, of violence as a gateway to ecstasy, of transgression as a necessary rupture of the mundane world. Elara read it in her small apartment, her body still sore and marked from the last session, the words resonating in her bones. She understood, now, that her thesis was not merely an academic exercise. It was a lived experience, a mapping of her own violation and transcendence.

My library professor whose deep commanding voice made my thighs clench during lectures. The man I’d fantasized about bending me over these very tables and fucking me senseless until I can’t remember my name. I opened the book, and the dedication page read: For those who crave quiet darkness.” My breath hitched. I flipped to the next page and started reading. “She knelt before him in the silence of stacks, skirts pushed high, panties already soaked. “Read it out,” He ordered. “Every filthy word, while I taste how wet you’ve become for me.”

Sara stared at the bulge in his pants, remembering exactly how his cock had felt in her mouth, thick, hot, and pulsing. She bit her lip hard to stop a moan from escaping. Her body was on fire, sexually frustrated and desperate for relief. The lecture dragged on, every minute feeling like torture. She kept checking the clock, counting down the seconds until class ended so she could rush back to her dorm room and use her vibrator.

TRIGGER WARNING: THIS BOOK IS STRICTLY EROTICA. IT CONTAINS EXTREMELY GRAPHIC GANG BANG SCENES, PUBLIC SEX, DEGRADATION, MULTIPLE PARTNERS, AND IS INTENDED FOR ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY (18+). READER DISCRETION IS STRONGLY ADVISED. "MELANDA'S POV" My name is Melanda, and I was twenty-one years old when I made the stupidest, hottest decision of my life.

“Guess I forgot my panties again. Bad girl, right, Professor?” His jaw clenched so hard I swore I heard it crack. He didn’t move closer. Yet. “You think this is a game, Lila?” His tone was low, dangerous. “Failing on purpose. Dressing like a little slut. Flashing your dripping cunt in my classroom where anyone could see. You wanted attention that bad?”

Like it had been written after the fact. I flipped the page. And then my heart stopped. A single sentence, buried in the middle of a paragraph: All wounds are consistent with self-inflicted injury. I gripped the paper so tightly it crumpled. No. I read it again. And again. The words didn’t change. Self-inflicted. But that wasn’t possible. Lena had crashed. She had scars—jagged, brutal scars that twisted across her skin like old, half-forgotten war wounds.