Sylvia Plath Short Stories 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?”

Author's Note This book is a short compilation of erotic stories. Please note that not all entries are heavily erotic—some lean more toward emotional moments, dramatic tension, or character interaction. Also, 99% of these stories don’t follow a traditional plot, so don’t be confused if there's no clear beginning, middle, or end. They’re written more for mood, moments, and expression than full narratives. Enjoy the ride,no overthinking needed. 😉 ********************************************* Kael didn’t wait.

Larisa wrote down the last line of the poem and shut her jotter. She yearned for Aleric so bad. Her hand reached out and picked up the goblet of red, thick blood, raising it to her lips. Not that she was hungry. She just needed the blood to serve as an aphrodisiac substitute to what she was feeling, to what she wanted. Sex. A copulation of body and soul with her beloved. But that would not be today, nor tomorrow. His journey still had a few days left in it.

I watched her reflection in the side mirror—quiet, composed, and far too calm for someone who had been in my bed two nights ago. God help me. They chatted most of the way to the mall. Or rather—Layla did. She filled the space with stories about things I barely processed. I nodded at the right moments, kept my eyes on the road, but the only thing I could focus on was the way Sara's reflection kept flickering in the rearview mirror. She wasn't talking. Just looking out the window like she didn't feel my eyes on her. When I pulled into the mall parking lot, I put the truck in park and turned to them.

In 1983 a Mrs Carson of New York was laid out in our coffin, presumed dead of hear disease. As mourners watched, she suddenly sat up, alive as you or I. Unfortunately her daughter dropped dead of fright on the spot. I don't own any of this stories. I found them in some creepy books. I'm thinking of writing my own scary stories, but not anytime soon. You can send me your short stories for a feature if you feel like it. Thanks for reading. Enjoy!I don't own any of this stories. I found them in some creepy books. I'm thinking of writing my own scary stories, but not anytime soon.

Sofia Reyes killed the engine of her rented Jeep outside the dusty warehouse on the edge of the port city, notebook crammed in her back pocket, camera slung across her chest. Six months chasing this story had taken her from quiet mountain roads to flashy nightclubs to lonely beach towns. Women vanishing. No bodies. No clear pattern at first. But the deeper she dug, the clearer it got and all of them had been restless, bored, aching for something sharper than their safe little lives.

“I let him inside me with no condom and I told him I loved him and I meant it and I hate myself for it.” Tears were streaming now. I didn’t even try to wipe them away. Dr. Patel passed me the tissue box without comment. “I keep waiting to feel dirty,” I said, voice small. “But mostly I just feel… full. Like for the first time my heart has too many rooms and they’re all lit up. And that feels worse somehow.” Silence stretched, soft and safe. Then Dr. Patel asked, very gently, “Do you think love can be a mistake, Lily? Or just… complicated?”

Sophie pov I took off my skirt and slowly traced lines on my panties, not taking my eyes off the magazine, slowly flipping it to the next page. My breathing grew faster. It was an up-close picture of the woman having her pussy licked by the man. Fuck, I couldn't tease myself any longer. I pulled my panties to one side and slipped a finger into my pussy.

"First and foremost, this is a work of fiction, and no correlation should be made with living people or incidents. The author doesn't support any of the ideology or the relationship— friendship or romantic— being presented in this story. This was merely written for entertainment sake, not to be followed and used as an ideal. There are many things that are wrong in this novel morally, and therefore, don't let this novel influence you." At the young age of six, Sylvia White had lost her father, and her mother turned to depression then, constantly drowning herself in alcoholism. After that, probably in order to get over her father, her mother, Lydia, engaged in relationships with various men.

Made room. Priya changed her shoes for ones she didn’t mind getting damp and went and sat beside her. The garden was small and dark and smelled like wet earth and the neighbor’s jasmine coming over the wall. They sat on the step with their shoulders touching and Priya held Dara’s mug because she didn’t have one and took a sip without asking and handed it back. “Tell me the long story,” Priya said. “The housing situation.” Dara held the mug. “I was living with someone. We broke up. Her flat.” She said it simply. “I knew it was over for a while before it ended. I just…” she paused. “Kept not saying it.”