Sweat Stories Novels & Stories

“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.” “I think that’s enough tall tales for one afternoon,” I say before George can fill Cassandra with more stories that might or might not be true. “Sorry, boys, but my new boss is a real hard-ass,” Cassandra tells them and then whispers loudly enough for me to hear, “If I can sneak back over here later, I want to hear all about that hip thing.” “You got it,” George tells her with a wink. “I think you’ve got a fan club,” I say when we walk to the front of the gym.

EMMA I lay there in a sweaty, sticky heap between Sarah and Jake, my body buzzing and my pussy still fluttering from the endless orgasms. The sheets beneath us were soaked. Jake’s cock rested heavy against my thigh, still semi-hard and slick with our combined juices. Sarah’s hand lazily traced circles on my stomach, her full breasts pressed against my side.

“What do you think you've done?” At Yasmine's stunned reply, the woman went on, “Seducing our husbands with your wanton body and inappropriate attires.” “I actually saw Jared masturbating to a picture of her on his phone yesterday,” said another woman, shaking her head. “I wonder where he got it from.” “No doubt the whore must have sent it to him.” replied the previous woman before reaching it and squeezing Yasmine's nipples through her clothes. “Ahhh,” the girl screamed in pain. “You'll be screaming more than that when we're through with you. Grab her, ladies.”

[AVA] I couldn't remember the last time I had sweated so profusely. There were visible sweat stains under my arms, and I silently thanked myself for choosing a black office shirt on my first day. The thought of enduring stares if anyone noticed my nervousness was unbearable. By reacting this way, I was practically giving Brian a reason to suspect that I had done something wrong. Well, I had, by sleeping with him, but he didn't know about it, right?

"As this brute just said, my name is Scarlet Relezea. I'm a second year from the fashion department." "Ah, I'm Black Vera." I replied. "I'm a second year from the arts department." "You're new here, aren't you?" "Yes." "I knew it. No old student would ever even think about being friends with this wild monkey. I feel so sorry for you, you poor soul." "If I'm a monkey, then you're a gorilla." Crimson passively commented. "Ignoring this useless brute, can you tell me why you need clothes?" "Ah, we're performing at the club recruitment, but I didn't know we had to bring an extra pair of clothes." I replied.

Some stories started with hate. This one ended with everything.

Thinking about it alone is enough to make my opening tingle. But something doesn’t add up. With all that much action, I expected my body to be very sore right now, but I am extremely relaxed. Is there something I’m missing? Then it clicks. I remember being carried to a bath and the gentle care they gave me after. I fell asleep in the tub. Naked. I look down at myself, and I’m in a pair of warm sweatpants and a t-shirt that looks three sizes bigger than me. It is long enough to pass as a minidress. No one has to tell me whose they aren’t mine because that is common sense. It is either First Guy’s or Thirst Trap’s.

I lay on the couch, legs still spread wide, my body trembling and covered in sweat. My pussy was a complete wreck…bright red, swollen, and gaping open after the brutal fucking Mr. Thompson had just given me. Thick white ropes of his cum poured steadily from my stretched hole, running down my ass crack and soaking the cushion beneath me. My full tits were red from his rough squeezing, and my hair was a tangled, sweaty mess. Mr. Thompson stood over me, his thick cock still semi-hard and glistening with our mixed juices. He looked down at the massive creampie leaking from my cunt with dark satisfaction.

"I think I've found my one true love." One true love? At a sweatshop? That was no different than discovering trash in a trash can. I concealed the contempt on my face, replacing it with eager curiosity for the story. "What? Who is it?" Sydney looked around, ensuring no one we knew was around, then leaned over. "My manager, Mr. Walmsley." As in, the Fred Walmsley, the manager of that sweatshop? She quickly covered my mouth before a squeal could escape. "Hey, keep it down! Mr. Walmsley prefers to keep things lowkey."

As he reaches up to write, the white fabric of his shirt strains against the muscles of his back, and I find myself tracking the way the lion tattoo on his forearm flexes and shifts with every movement of his wrist. The Art of Storytelling Through Sensory Detail. The words are bold and sharp on the whiteboard. He turns back to us, leaning his hip against the edge of the podium. His rolled up sleeves reveal the thick veins in his forearms, and the scent of him, that woodsmoke and sharp musk, seems to drift across the rows of desks, clogging my lungs.