Short Fiction Stories Novels & Stories

The library stood silent, its towering bookshelves casting long shadows under the dim overhead lights, a sanctuary of knowledge where I retreated to lose myself in words. I was introverted, my mind a labyrinth of intellect, but beneath my reserved exterior simmered a curiosity about my own hidden fantasies—erotic encounters in quiet, public spaces, a thrill I’d explored before with lovers past. My skirt brushed my thighs as I moved, a book in hand, the rustle of pages masking the quickening of my breath as I imagined being caught in passion here.

our age is almost wholly illiterate and has hardly produced one writer upon any subject. Jonathan Swift, satirist (1704) Short story writer[edit] Main article: Short story A short story writer is a writer of short stories, works of fiction that can be read in a single sitting.

Cupping my mound through the shorts, I feel my juice seeping out and I rub two of my fingers on it in slow circles, but it's not enough, so I put my hands right into my shorts to touch myself. My finger on my pussy directly feels good, I gasp as shock waves travel through my body and then I open my eyes to see that there is a magazine under one of the bottles. Pulling my wet hand out of my shorts, I use the other clean one to pick up the magazine that caught my attention, it's the same magazine Ellie once brought to the bathroom when she let me watch her masturbate. Back then I had been too shy to look at the magazine but now…it's only me here and I want to see it all.

Well, I can't fuck myself, someone has to do the fucking" I replied. He chuckled. I returned to his cock, sucking like a slut in heat. I made sexual sounds to excite him; years of watching p**n and reading erotic stories had taught me that men love hearing erotic moans from women, even if they are just for effect, not because my pussy is actually getting stimulated. The New York best selling romantic novels were my best companions during my college days.

“Fuck—Sof—yes—” Lena’s hands fisted in auburn hair, pulling Sofia’s mouth harder against her tit while her other hand shoved up Sofia’s skirt. No panties—Sofia never wore them on “late nights.” Lena’s fingers found slick, swollen folds already dripping. She plunged two inside without warning; Sofia moaned around her nipple, hips jerking forward.

Pinky squinted to read it, her eyes tracing the loops and crosses. "Collection of short stories for ladies," the title read. "Stories of desire, of awakening, of the first time." Pinky blinked, her eyes widening as she read on. The handwriting was feminine, secretive, as if the writer were sharing her most guarded thoughts with only the pages. It was a confession. A revelation. As she began to read.

That was all he said as he took his briefcase and made his way out of the house while I watched him leave helplessly. “I could be good for you.” I whispered in frustration and stomped my feet before clearing the table and dumping them in the sink. I spent the rest of the day as usual, stealing Nick's shirt and hiding it in my room so that I could fuck myself to it at night. When 6 PM struck, I got a text from Mom with a message that had me sighing in despair. Mom: “There's unfortunately too much work. I think I'll be home by midnight. Or in the morning. Take care baby, xoxo.”

she whimpered, leaning forward to capture my lips in a deep, tongue-twisting French kiss. As our tongues entwined, Lillian guided my nine-inch cock to the entrance of her soaking wet pussy. She lowered herself slowly, her eyes locked onto mine, savoring the moment my head breached her tight walls. I groaned loudly as I felt her heat envelop me, the tightness of her grip reminding me why she was the only woman who could truly handle me. "Put it all in, Edwin," she breathed, her voice trembling. "Fill me up before we give some of it to her."

I collapsed onto my back, my chest heaving, one forearm slung over my eyes to block out the dim glow from the city lights through the blinds. “Fuck,” I whispered to the dark ceiling. Seven months. It had been seven months since a man had touched me. The last one—Mark, the architect with the nice smile and wandering hands—had lasted three dates before he “realized he wasn’t ready for commitment.” Translation: he’d met someone easier. Before him there was Daniel, who cried after sex because he missed his ex. Before that, Ethan, who ghosted me after I mentioned wanting kids someday. The pattern was exhausting.

I never thought a stupid prank by my so-called friends would change everything. It was supposed to be harmless. A silly dare during a weekend hangout at my house while Mom was away visiting her sister. They tied my wrists with fuzzy handcuffs to the headboard, spread my legs with soft ropes to the bedposts, and left me in nothing but a tiny tank top and no panties. “Just for ten minutes,” they laughed, snapping pictures before running downstairs to “hide” and wait for my reaction.