Stories Sex Lit Novels & Stories

She was looking over my shoulder at the same wall and reading some of them softly under her breath. “Hmmm, look at this one,” I said. “This person seems to have described our date last week in perfect detail.” It was a story about a woman who liked to be spanked and punished. “I like this one,” Carrie said, pointing to another. “I really think we should try and work this one into our next date.” The story was about a couple who arranged to act like strangers and meet up at a trashy bar and pick each other up. There were long descriptions about them fucking in the back of the bar as the guys playing pool watched and stroked their cues.

Lena had always known she was different. At twenty-four, with a body built for sin — full, heavy breasts that strained against every top she wore, a tiny waist, and wide, soft hips that swayed with every step — she had never been able to control her cravings. It wasn’t just high libido. It was an addiction. A deep, aching need to be fucked that never truly went away. The moment her pussy got wet, her mind shut off and her body took over. She would let literally anyone have her if they wanted it. Old, young, ugly, hot, married, single — it didn’t matter. As long as there was a hard cock, Lena would spread her legs.

His hands trembled, his body twitching, hips grinding deep to stay buried in her fluttering, greedy pussy. Ravion held on longer, teeth gritted, cock pounding into her ass until her body shivered, and she clenched around him with another orgasm. That was it. He came hard, roaring as his cum shot into her stretched, soaked ass, overflowing and dripping with white. They collapsed around her with ragged breaths. Lyssa turned over slowly, lying in the mess of divine sex, their cum leaking from both holes, a goddess defiled and crowned all at once. Her hand slid to her cunt, already rubbing slow, teasing circles.

James stated. "Are you kidding? That's all she can think about that's why she can't stop writing. She basically writes graphically vivid sex scenes on her spare time." Claire pointed out. "Claire, you make it sound like I write porn." I stated. "You're a great writer but you write really good sex scenes. If you compile all the sex scenes you've written it'll be under erotica." She replied. "I write romance novels. Being intimate is part of the story. I just don’t' write about people having sex."

The combination of having incestuous sex in front of strangers while enduring sexual insults combined with the friction in her pussy was too much for her to take and her body and soul exploded. The wails from her mouth were so loud it brought others into the room to see. And for the first time she squirted all over. I kept ramming my meat into her intensely spasming vagina to prolong her orgasm. Then I gave in and shot my hot cream up into her womb. My hips bucked up against hers and we grinded them roughly together. We kept grinding and grinding in an effort to extract every drop of cum we had in our bodies. Then we collapsed in a heap with Grandma's sweaty body on top of mine. We are now i

Vicky’s fingers trailed lazily down my stomach, circling my navel before dipping lower to tease the still-swollen lips of my pussy. We were both drenched with sweat, and cum, the lingering slick from the double dildo now discarded on the nightstand. The room smelled thickly of sex— musky arousal, her jasmine perfume, and mine. Afternoon had bled into early evening, the light soft and golden through the half-closed blinds. She kissed the corner of my mouth, then whispered hot against my ear, “You said next time you wanted my fist. I’m not waiting for next time.”

She was suddenly aware of how shabby her jeans and simple sweater looked in this opulent space. "It's okay. Call me Damon." He gestured to the leather sofa. Ara sat, clutching her bag like a shield. Damon remained standing, studying her. “I’ve read every book you’ve written,” he stated. “All twenty-three. Your imagination is… exceptional. Filthy. Creative. It's a shame you've landed in this current situation.” Hearing a stranger acknowledge her erotic work so bluntly made her stomach twist.

My gaze drifts to the stained-glass windows, to the painted lips of the female saints—lips I have imagined pressed against my own in the dark of my bedroom while I touch myself and then cry into my pillow afterward. I am twenty-eight years old and I have never been kissed. Not truly. I work at St. Agnes Library, a quiet brick building across the street from Sin & Salvation Tattoo. Every day for the past six months I have watched her from the circulation desk. Lucia Valdez. She stands outside her shop in the late afternoons, cigarette between her fingers, dark hair pulled into a messy knot that reveals the shaved underside and the trail of tiny black stars inked along her scalp. Her arms are

I raised a teasing eyebrow at that defensive excuse. " Against my better judgement!" Amanda hastily added, her cheeks increasingly flushed you'd think I was accusing her of selling amateur porn videos, starring her. " And I must say, literature is dying if that's what people are reading nowadays. I mean, why not write about world hunger or global warming? But what do we get instead? We get a whole trilogy of sadistic-masochistic sex. " " There's nothing wrong with masochists and sadists, Mrs Dawson,"

Her screams of pleasure and pain pealed loudly across the yards. As we came down from our climax, she again reached between her legs and started to gather up our excess liquids. She put her hand to her mouth and licked the flow from her hand. With a smile of pure lust, she spoke, “A good slave should clean her master after sex.”