Novel & Cerita Pocket Stories

“Then maybe that’s your answer.” Later that night, Ryan stood by his window. The streetlights blurred in the distance. His inbox pinged again a reply from L. Tansey, offering a call. He didn’t answer yet. Instead, he opened a blank page. And he typed: “A Story That Doesn’t Belong To You” by Ryan Calloway He stared at the title for a long moment. Then under it, he wrote: “This isn’t a story about revenge. It’s about reclaiming.” Two weeks later.

For this reason, I decided to move all then into strange short stories, that is already a storybook of different themes. The w******l policy does not allow me to remove or delete those books, so they will remain there but as a "paused" book. You can find only the introduction of those books on w******l and no else more. But there you can find some covers I made for those stories and that I can not upload here. The stories of a single chapter will continue to be published, of course. Each volume of Strange short stories will have 3 medium-sized stories and about 10 short stories.

There was one solitary, big book on a low table between them. "The title of the tale is The Binding of Autumn," he began, his voice an entrancing whisper just in harmony with the shriek of the fire. “It's the tale of a harvest god who offers a mortal woman a choice: one night of absolute freedom for one year of unimaginable riches for her people." He didn't move as his eyes met hers. "The consent is the matter at hand. It must be freely bestowed, not coerced, and whispered three times into the skin of his throat." “Do you have any idea what sort of story you're going to be reading me tonight?”

Chapter 3 Clara’s POV. The game kept rolling like a filthy freight train with no brakes, the circle getting sloppier and louder with every turn as clothes started coming off in messy piles and hands disappeared between thighs, fingers plunging deep into soaked cunts with loud wet squelching noises that mixed with the heavy bass thumping through the walls.

The above sentences are the thoughts of the author about what he thinks, but it is my duty to tell all the things he has in his mind. The space science and the beginning of the human era, why I always talk about the past, why I'm interested in the dead stories, why I tell a tale of another time, why I don't like the present and, also why I'm not narrating about those dumbasses who were about to close the mysterious case of random killing by an unidentified criminal (creature)? You might have so many questions and confusions about the fact that I puzzle a simple story in what we call a Riddle…? But you can still believe in me that I'll give you a gift tomorrow.

was going to meet Amy . While I was laying on the street a woman passed by and told me she could help me . She took me to a fancy house and treated my fever. She put a roof over my head and listened to me narrating my problems. She told me there was a way to get rid of all my pain and that she would help me if I was ready. With images of Amy always floating in my mind and the constant pain in my chest I asked for her help. She sent me over to a man in his mid-30s and asked him for her regular. I was confused . What could it be that she would take regularly? He placed a bag in her hand and she requested we go." Life is a game baby girl . On the street you have to find your means of survival.

And when Susan sat down next to her and opened up the parcel, she was shocked to realize that it was filled with $50 bills. ‘What the Hell is this?’ she insisted, hardly able to believe her eyes. Lucy was a two-bit hooker. One look around her dingy apartment proved that there was no way on earth that she could have laid her hands on that kind of money, unless… The guilt-ridden hooker burst into tears, begging the detective for forgiveness but still refusing to tell her what it was that she had done. Lucy was beside herself, but Susan could be very comforting when she wanted to be. And after ten minutes wrapped in the detective’s loving embrace, Lucy was far too horny to want to cry any more.

His hands venture over her curved body, exploring. They pull apart and open their eyes. They stare at each other, deep into each other's eyes. Hussaini's full of wonder and love, Nafisa's full of curiosity and passion. No words are spoken but a story worthy of them is communicated. He leans in a softly kisses up and down her neck. She lets out little whimpers of anticipation. He works his way back to her tender, smooth lips. As they kiss she rolls him over and lies on top of his strong, muscular body.

Photographs covered the walls portraits of strangers caught mid-smile, moments of stillness, and little stories told without words. “Wow,” I breathed. “It’s beautiful.” Ethan shrugged lightly. “It’s just life through a lens.” He motioned toward a chair near the window. “Sit. Want coffee? Or tea?” “Coffee’s fine,” I said, and he disappeared for a moment, returning with two steaming cups. When I took the first sip, he leaned against the table across from me and asked, “So, how’s your story going now?” I smiled. “Better, actually. The words are finally moving again.”

In one rough motion she ripped my panties down my legs and shoved them into her pocket. “Spread your legs,” she ordered. I obeyed instantly, opening my thighs for her. The cool night air hit my dripping, exposed pussy and I shivered. Lena didn’t tease. She buried her face between my legs like she was starving. The first long, slow lick from my entrance to my clit made my knees buckle. I grabbed onto her hair with both hands as she devoured me — licking, sucking, and tongue-fucking my leaking hole with filthy enthusiasm. “Fuck, Lena… oh my god,” I whimpered, grinding against her face.