New Age Erotica Novels & Stories

THE AGENCY PENTHOUSE PLAYROOM PT 1 Seraph led Dorian into her private top-floor suite after the agency party ended. The penthouse playroom had soft dim lights along the walls. A large four-poster bed stood in the center with dark wood posts and crisp white sheets. Dorian was twenty-six years old. He felt nervous but excited. His hands shook a little at his sides. Seraph was older than him. She moved with confidence and always stayed in control.

His scarred hands moved fast, wrapping and unwrapping as he worked the bag with steady power. Lila bit her lower lip. She pulled out her phone and opened her secret folder. The videos showed rough, dominant older men fucking younger women hard. She turned the volume low so only she could hear the moans and slaps. Her free hand slid down into her tiny cotton shorts. Her fingers found her clit right away. She was already wet. The wetness coated her fingertips as she started rubbing slow circles. Damien kept hitting the bag. Each punch made a loud thud that echoed through the empty warehouse. Lila rubbed her clit in time with the punches. She started slow and careful, pressing just enough to fe

I was nineteen. His son’s ex-girlfriend. An hour ago, I’d been crying in the rain because of that same son, my chest aching, my heart raw and bruised. Now I was pressed against Ethan, my breath hot against his ear, my hand stroking him through his clothes until I felt how hard he was, how badly he wanted this—wanted me. It was wrong. I knew it was. But when I whispered his name and felt the way his body reacted, the way his breath hitched, something inside me snapped.

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One hand gripped her hip hard enough to leave fingerprints; the other reached around to rub her clit in fast, ruthless circles. “Take it, take every inch. This is what happens when you tease me for a year and a half with those tight skirts and those little moans you make when you’re frustrated with a spreadsheet.” He panted. Elena pushed back to meet every thrust, sobbing with pleasure. “Harder, fuck me harder, make me come again, make me forget every other man.” He gave it to her with a brutal pace. The new angle hit deeper, grinding against her cervix with every stroke. She shattered again walls clamping down around him like a vice, milking him as she screamed his name.

He reached for a toilet paper on his desk and gently wiped his chest and abdomen. The thought made my nipples, still exposed in the cool air, tighten again. I hadn’t had dirty thoughts about a man other than Nathan. I certainly hadn’t ever had phone sex with anyone besides him. I felt both aroused and ashamed.

My hand m‍ove​d on its o​wn, fingers slipping u‌nder the damp‍ fabric, finding my clit, pressing‍ hard, circli‌ng once, twice, matching his pace. Anna droppe⁠d to her knees be​side them, silent‌ and grace‌ful, sliding one hand up Greta’⁠s trem⁠bli​n‍g thigh, c‍upping a breast, pinching the n‍ipple until Gret‌a his‌se⁠d.

She kept grinding through her orgasm, then finally lifted herself off me, breathing heavily. She kissed me deeply, tasting herself on my tongue. “You’re a natural,” she whispered. Elena reached into the nightstand and pulled out a sleek black strap-on. My eyes widened. “Not tonight,” she said with a wicked smile, putting it back. “Tonight I want to feel you against me.” She positioned herself between my legs, pressing her wet pussy directly against mine. The contact was electric. She started grinding slowly, our clits rubbing together in a perfect rhythm. The sensation was unlike anything I had ever felt, slick, warm, and incredibly intimate. Elena moved faster, her breasts brushing against

The shame only made it hotter, and I thought about all of the naughty things we could sneak around and do together. “Jason.” I whimpered, whispering his name as I smelled one of his t-shirts and ferociously masturbated. He was so sexy, and so much older than me. And it was so taboo that it was downright wrong. Once I let my mind go there, I couldn’t undo it and I found myself staying in more so that I could be near him.

Tara, a 28-year-old artist with a wild mane of chestnut curls and a body that curved in all the right places lived in a tiny run-down apartment in the city, and her bed, a sagging mattress pushed against the far wall was a tangle of mismatched sheets. And the thin walls of the apartment did little to contain all her loud, uninhibited moans that spilled out during her nightly self-pleasure sessions, a habit that had earned her raised eyebrows and whispered gossip from her neighbors.