Smutty Novellas Novels & Stories

You'll be able to find me on various SM pl@forms so make sure you come check in on the latest :) I am currently working on more Mafia romances, a new series called The Notorious Five. If you haven't read this, you will want to as it is so much better than Cruz, darker and grittier. This is the series that has taken up most of my time and if you read the books, you will see why. They are constantly updated and the series is almost finished. If you find me on SM, you'll be able to find out where the works are :)

"Good morning, Ms. Ahri Hauntsen." Ahri smiled and replied, "Good morning children, today is my last day as your volunteer teacher. I have prepared a good story for you." The children clapped their hands while going back to their seats. Ahri opened the book entitled Peculiar Morass. She cleared her throat before starting to narrate. "Once upon a time there were two people who were cursed to hate each other. They are bound to be reincarnated again and again." "Why are they cursed, anyway?" The kid with a pigtail interrupted.

He commented, still baffled by what he just discovered. Smith was at the other VVIP table and there were two sexy women sitting beside him. It looks like he's enjoying their company. “He’s a regular here. Smith is one of the few men who tried to take Eve home. He even offered one million dollars for one night. And guess what? She declined!'' “One million dollars for one night? For a pussy? That’s ridiculous.” Phoenix couldn't understand why these men would pay such an amount just for a damn pussy! “You won’t say that if you see her.”

By the next afternoon, the quiet tension is practically humming in my ears. Lounging on the far end of the couch, I have my legs stretched out and resting over the armrest. I’m wearing comfortable grey sweatpants that leave absolutely zero doubt about the current, frustrated state of my anatomy. A paperback sci-fi novel rests open on my chest. It’s a space opera about rogue smugglers, supposedly heavy on the action. Turns out, it’s even heavier on the smut. Scanning a particularly graphic paragraph on page two-hundred-and-four, a wicked idea forms in my mind.

My panties rip. Cool air touches my pussy. I'm exposed. Zeke steps back. He pulls his pants down. His zombie cock springs out. It's thick and veined, the skin mottled green and black. Pus drips from the tip. It smells foul, like curdled milk and decay. Precum leaks in thick globs. Yellow and sticky. I gag at the smell. He grabs my hips. Flips me around. My face presses against the wall. Rough wood scrapes my cheek.

She lifts it to look at it then looks up at me. "Smut slut?" she asks. I chuckle a little and nod. "That's what's kind of embarrassing. The type of book it is. When we first showed up, we thought it was a fantasy war kind of book. Turns out, it's smut." I say. "What's smut?" she asks. "A uh... descriptive romance. Literary p**n. Cliterature, if you will." I say with a grin. I watch as she processes my words, her face going from scrunched and confused, to surprised until a wide smile splits across her face.

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.

I screamed around Ethan’s shaft. We came together in a sweaty, filthy explosion. Dylan flooded my pussy with pulse after pulse of hot cum. Carter unloaded deep in my ass, the overflow leaking out around his shaft. Ethan pulled out and painted my face and tits with rope after rope of thick white cum. I kept cumming, body shaking, holes clenching, milking every last drop. We collapsed in a sticky, cum-drenched heap. Cum oozed from my stretched pussy and asshole, dripped down my thighs, and coated my chin, cheeks, and heaving breasts. My hair was a mess, my makeup ruined. I looked like the perfect used-up slut.

One month after Sophie’s wedding, Ava Harper’s apartment looked like a shared crime scene. Finn’s sneakers (nine pairs, she’d counted) were scattered like the house was a nursery house. His hoodie hung permanently on the couch. His “World’s Okayest Actor” mug sat on the counter, half-full of cold coffee he swore he’d finish “later” (he never did). The spice rack, once an alphabetized perfection, was now in “Finn’s flavor order”: hot sauce first, cinnamon last.

Thick and heavy pressing against his zipper while he lectured. I wanted to drop to my knees right there and taste him. See if that brooding mouth could deliver on all the dirty promises his voice hinted at. My fingers gripped the edge of the desk. My panties were ruined now slick fabric clinging to my swollen lips. He continued the lecture but his eyes kept drifting back to me. “In Wuthering Heights Heathcliff doesn’t ask permission nicely. He takes what burns between them. Raw. Messy. Cum soaked sheets and bruises on thighs. That’s the kind of love that destroys and rebuilds you.”