Stories X Novels & 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?”

“Says the Alpha who gave his Luna oral sex in dream land.” “That would actually a very interesting story plot.” “Exactly why we should be doing more adventurous things while fucking…to spice up our lives and make good story plots.” “Hmm.” “Yeah, you mentioned one time that Everlery likes writing…she can write erotica stories with what we do and who knows? We might be the inspiration to a bestseller book.”

I whispered, keeping my voice low so Xavier wouldn't hear every word. "No! Tell me what happened", she shrieked, making me flinch as I kept a bit of distance between my ear and the phone. Sheesh. Well someone's excited. "Well", I whispered. "Xavier is practically a slobbering mess. You know that cock ring I ordered online a week ago?", "Shut up! No way! You used it?" "Mmhmm" "OMG!! Girl he is obviously going to be such an orgasm deprived mess right now but do tell how did you use it?"

Ch-1 --------------------- [Father forces son to be star in his adult film; mom inserts herself into film; they become a couple. Mom has primordial fight with another actress for right to do sex scene with son. Mom and son end up with studio after divorce. Father doesn't fare as well.]

Thrust in—hard, deep—one brutal stroke that buried him completely. Lila gasped—sharp, needy. Hands scrabbled on the table, knocking a small candle stand sideways. He started fucking her—long, powerful strokes that rattled the silver vessels around them. Chalice clinked against paten. Each thrust rocked her back—breasts bouncing under the habit, nipples hard and visible through the wool.

Cassandra gasps as Willy, one of the oldest here, tells stories of his glory days. “Ask him how many ribs he’s missing,” I whisper to her, and her eyes widen in shock. “Four,” Willy says and holds up as many fingers. “Had them punched clean out of me.” “You’re lying,” she says with a laugh, and the sound of it heats my body from the inside out. “I’d never lie to a pretty woman,” Willy says, and his best friend George scoffs. “That’s the first person you’re lying to,” George says. “Don’t believe a word he says. But if you want to talk about real injuries, let me tell you about the time I dislocated both my hips and still won my fight.”

WARNING : This is a collection of short erotic stories. It is extremely explicit, raw and unfiltered. Not suitable for readers under 18. Step into a world where every shade of temptation comes alive. Where obsession feels like love, and ruin feels like pleasure. Every tale drags you into a secret desire, a toxic attraction. Where heroines love being ravaged, and still beg for more. Stepdads who claim what they desire while mom is away or sleeping. Dominant piano tutor who turns practice into breathless, handcuffed restraint, and a junior brother who blackmailed their sisters into a threesome.

“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.

he said, his voice a low vibration that hit me square in the chest. The chatter died instantly. He turned around, leaning against the podium, his sleeves already rolled up to reveal the lion etched into his tanned skin. My pulse spiked. I couldn't stop my eyes from tracing the golden outlines of the beast on his arm, remembering the way it seemed to ripple in the moonlight of my subconscious. "The Art of Storytelling is not a solo venture," he began, his almond eyes finally sweeping over the rows. "To understand narrative, you must understand collaboration and the friction of differing perspectives. For the remainder of the semester, you will be working in groups of five."

The air in the library was thick with the scent of old books and the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Sadile Marconi, her fiery red hair cascading over her shoulders like a river of flames, sat at a secluded table, her green eyes darting between the pages of her textbook and the clock on the wall. The numbers seemed to mock her, ticking away the minutes until her next class, a class she was dangerously close to failing.