fiction
Erotic, romantic, and sexy fiction for the Filthy community.
Her Lover's Return
Cora huddled by the fire, book in one hand, hot chocolate in the other. Outside rain slashed against the window panes, lightning flashed so bright it lit up the curtains, thunder so loud she jumped every time it boomed overhead. Even the wind was up tonight, leaves and sticks and gumnuts smacking against the windows and banging on the roof as they fell from the trees above.
By Heather Kinnane5 years ago in Filthy
Jenny’s Pussy
How can I describe perfection? Befitting words haven’t been invented for something that doesn’t exist. Perfection is a utopian concept. We usually accept that nothing is perfect. Yet, I submit, here in this story, that it can exist when one is completely in love, even with the back of her hands, her elbows, her knees, her navel, each one of her toes, everything that’s a part of Jenny, Jennifer, my new love. Oh I loved her for more than a couple of years now, but I couldn’t act upon it given my age. She’s 38 and I’m 57, and 19 years of difference are not something to dismiss or forget. But she was adamant and in love with me from the start, but I always refused her advances given my age. A few weeks ago, she took it upon her charming self — I adore her — to convince me unrelentingly that we loved each other and that love always triumphed no matter the walls. I couldn’t resist her any longer and surrendered to our love.
By Patrick M. Ohana5 years ago in Filthy
A Maid in My Bed
Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever. Charles Kingsley There’s nothing average about being a Don Juan, and since I couldn’t even become an amateur libertine and had never learned Spanish, I became a writer of sorts, composing haikus and sonnets about sex, and love, though love always paled without the lunch box and the honeypot to make it real. Of course, I also wrote short and long stories in various forms where sex had to be used in various positions.
By Patrick M. Ohana5 years ago in Filthy
The Police Officer’s Pussy
I don’t eat pizza. There are too many carbs. I eat pussy. There are no carbs, unless you whip-cream it or add dark chocolate. The one with cannabis is the best. What can be better than pussy, dark chocolate, and cannabis? I can imagine some of you thinking: two pussies. That’s a given. Let’s stick to one single pussy in this cop story. It could have involved two cops, but the other one was happily married. There are happily married people out there; it’s not a myth. I also sensed that she wanted a penis all to herself. Some people don’t like to share. Pizza may be the exception, unless there’s only one slice. One last thing before beginning my tale, so I won’t digress too much. I will, of course, but I’ll keep it at soft-bottom. Come on already! Don’t rush me! I want to reach at least ten minutes of storytelling; twenty if she lets me. Since a cop could be compromised in this account, there are some details that will be omitted, but I will let you know when it occurs.
By Patrick M. Ohana5 years ago in Filthy
Seducing her Sister's Teacher
Tosca loved National Superhero Day. She loved visiting schools and talking about all the amazing women who were super heroes in their own right, especially those women history conveniently forgot, like Judith Love Cohen, who managed to help rescue the Apollo 13 astronauts while she was in labour, and Harriet Tubman, who escaped slavery and managed to rescue so many others from the same fate.
By Heather Kinnane5 years ago in Filthy
Pornman
Morty loved porn. He was Pornman, after all. Pornman? The man who lived in porn. He literally lived in it as if it was a place. It was in his case. I should first tell you about his superpower. While sexual prowess was part of his aptitude, Pornman didn’t fly or anything like that. But I should start from the beginning. Chronology is never a given unless one makes it flow.
By Patrick M. Ohana5 years ago in Filthy
Staying Inside
The woman I love is not a blond like in the pic above or a redhead or one who dyes her hair blue or purple. The woman I love has short dark brown-auburn hair and I love to stay inside her. It’s always warm and then hot and then warm again. I refuse to explode, so I can remain inside her forever minus an hour during which I could prepare to explode for the last time and be only stopped by death, the hunting ground for every love and life.
By Patrick M. Ohana5 years ago in Filthy
A String Theory
It would be easier to describe string theory, the little that I accept of this doubtful turf, than to tell you about the beginning, and the end for that matter, of the string. I barely noticed it one cloudy October weekend afternoon, dangling unbound in the air a bit closer to the ceiling than the floor. Roughly a foot long, it looked bluish and felt British between my fingers. Pubic hair has a peculiar texture, a strange consistency, so it seems, compared to other types of hair and particularly the locks that cover our heads. I have known British pubes, rough and downy at the same time, like a dying poet, unlike the ordinariness of the French, Korean, Russian, and Spanish, and the pubes of other nationalities in all probability. I pulled on it the way an ill-fated woman first pulls on a penis to assess its solidity before milking it for that nauseating nectar. What can be described as a space in space suddenly opened up and pulled me in much the same way that a mindful ant is sucked in by a mindless anteater. I found myself in a dark coldish cave that meandered to a cool darkish cavern.
By Patrick M. Ohana5 years ago in Filthy
