Reluctance Sex Stories Novels & Stories

“I don’t need a visual of you shaking your dick in some poor girl’s face.” He laughs. “You should try it.” “No way would he do it,” Quinton says from the chair, his attention focused on the hockey game. “More like no way would you do it,” I shoot back, giving him a pointed look. “Hey, the ladies like their dark men thick,” he says, rubbing his hand over his not-that-thick belly. “Trust me, I don’t need to dance at bachelorette parties to get the goods.” “You’re both pathetic,” I say. “I would have thought that our days of university were behind"

The rest of the week was torture. Every day I had to pretend everything was normal with Mark. I cooked dinner, smiled, let him kiss me and touch me. But every time he tried to have sex with me, I made excuses. I was “tired” or “not feeling well.” The truth was, I didn’t want him inside me. I only wanted them. I touched myself constantly when he wasn’t home. I would lie on our bed, legs spread, and fuck myself with my fingers or a toy while I thought about the four of them using me. Sometimes I would put my fingers in my ass and pretend it was Jake or Tyler again.

I have always been able to trust Sammy. But how can I tell Sammy about how I am changing? How my interest in sex is pushing me beyond the normal limits that people have; how my Onlyfans account was veering further and further away from hers, which is strictly suggestive bathing suit pictures; how, when I masturbate now, which is currently about three times a day, all I can picture is my stepfather's face... my stepfather staring at me, his eyes glazing over with lust, as he cums? A wave of sadness washes over me. My stepfather, whom I love, and who now can't look at me because of the way I've been acting. The things I've done.

We continued talking for almost another hour. Mostly about Stephen. Or more specifically, how much Amelia hated him now. “I swear if I ever see that idiot—” “You’ll kill him?” I finished with a laugh. “Exactly.” I smiled softly. God, I loved her. Then suddenly Amelia gasped loudly. “Oh my God.” “What?” “You need rebound sex.” I nearly choked. “Amelia!” “I’m serious,” she continued excitedly. “You need some insanely handsome guy to fuck Stephen completely out of your system.”

Intimate. “Shh.” One finger pressed against my lips. “No more talking unless I tell you to. We wouldn’t want security to hear the prim little library assistant moaning like a whore when they finally check the building.” The crude word sent a shameful thrill straight to my core. I was already wet, embarrassingly so, just from one kiss and the way he was looking at me like he planned to devour me slowly. He stepped back slightly, eyes never leaving mine, and reached for one of the leather-bound books on the nearby table. It was an old edition of The Decameron, Boccaccio’s tales of lust and sin during the plague. One of the restricted volumes he’d borrowed before.

The alcohol was still thick in her veins, Rissa felt herself unraveling in slow, syrupy waves, her legs falling wider and hips lifting toward his hand when his rough fingers finally slipped between her thighs and found how embarrassingly wet she already was. “Fuck,” Ronan breathed, the word almost reverent. “All this for a man who won’t even look at you?” He worked her open with slow, merciless strokes, curling two fingers deep inside, while his thumb circled her clit in tight, unrelenting loops. Larissa’s head thrashed against the pillow, a broken sob caught in her throat every time he dragged against that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids. She was close, dangerously

She felt it in her muscles, in the lingering pulse of her own pleasure, in the slick evidence between her thighs. Slowly, Marcus shifted, lifting himself off her, his body leaving a cold imprint. He moved to lie beside her, but Clara’s hand on his chest stopped him. “Wait,” she whispered. He looked at her, his dark eyes filled with a mix of awe and shame. She didn’t want shame. Not now. The dam had broken. The years of suppressed curiosity, of sensual dreams she’d prayed away, were now a torrent inside her. She wasn’t a nun here. She was Clara. And Clara wanted more.

Some years ago, I also found in her papers a couple of books or booklets about race relations with passages relating to large private parts, women desiring 'primitive' sexual excitement, and similar things, underlined or circled, presumably by her. I have tried to discuss sexual things with her and pleaded with her to tell me her fantasies and interests, and what turns her on. Each time she just got impatient with me, or angry, or changed the subject. She denied having any fantasies or special interests. I have my own fantasies of course, plenty of them, but I've always been embarrassed by them and kept them from her (not that she's asked, she hasn't). Most of my sexual thoughts involve inte

Doesn’t pull away. I “forget” to latch the bathroom door while I shower. Steam curls out into the hall as I soap my body slowly, deliberately, letting water sluice over nipples that stay hard even under the heat. I hear his footsteps pause outside. Hear the soft creak of floorboards as he stands there, just out of sight. I don’t call out. I don’t close the door. I just keep touching myself under the spray—slow circles over my clit, two fingers dipping inside—knowing he can hear the wet sounds, the soft gasps I don’t bother muffling.

“You’ve… done this before?” His laugh was low and filthy, his eyes darkening as they held hers. “Since I was seventeen. Older women are my thing. Married ones especially. They’re always so pent up, so grateful when you give them what their husbands won’t. They come harder, beg louder, do things they’d never admit to in the daylight.”