fiction
Erotic, romantic, and sexy fiction for the Filthy community.
Heating Up
Laken catches my gaze and leans forward to take his turn to kiss me. His whiskers tickle my chin, and I bring my hand up, focusing on the soft brush of them as my fingers stroke his jawline. His lips are so soft, and before I know it he’s slipped his tongue between them to press against mine, still tasting of Gage’s fruity dessert.
Heather KinnanePublished 3 years ago in FilthyDora Boyd
I never got involved with any of my neighbours or befriended any one of them. A simple salutation seemed more than sufficient, that is until I met Dora Boyd. She was determined to make me speak further to ascertain my full name. I think that I would have told her everything. I found myself talking to her as if I had known her since her Doris days. I even invited her, as soon as our chat was nearing its end, to my apartment for a homemade diner.
Patrick M. OhanaPublished 3 years ago in FilthyAll That String?
Ben befriended everyone and everything, from the beggar on the beach to the brush in his bathroom. His favourite if not beloved other was, however, a string; blue and close to six feet long. He thought about it throughout the day at his desk, analyzing medical data and wondering, for instance, whether the more widespread type II diabetes should have been called type I, and then thinking that he would have liked the string best even if it had been black, the worst colour, or lack of it, he could imagine. By the same token, he also considered white to be quite unattractive, comprising all the colours as if scared of the darkness to come. At home, the string was always beside him when he was not rolling it around his penis or neck to better contemplate death either way.
Patrick M. OhanaPublished 3 years ago in FilthyMobile Pussy
I was tired of his musings. Your pussy this and your pussy that. What a prick! I was basically a mobile pussy for him. He wanted to fuck me all the time. What the fuck! What a prick! It was good and hard, and pretty. Nice balls, too. Two. Sorry, astronauts! What? Their balls shrink in space.
Patrick M. OhanaPublished 3 years ago in FilthyI Took Her Inside
This story is hard to tell. I may need to skip some parts. Don’t worry! It won’t be the sex. It was too good to be left out. But before I start, just to set the mood, I want you to read the following haiku. You don’t have to. I left enough space to allow you to skip it. If I can skip some parts, so can you. Yet it’s only seventeen syllables long. Even a prick may be longer.
Patrick M. OhanaPublished 3 years ago in FilthyDirty Desert
My head was aching and my back hurting when I awoke. I was sore all over and I soon discovered why. I was lying on a cement floor in the middle of nowhere. Far on the horizon around me, I could trace something, but unlike the concreteness of the floor I was sitting on by now, it was quite unclear. I could not just stay there and ponder. I stood up, stretching and rubbing myself, trying to feel erect. “I must be in some weird dream,” I considered. “No!” I decided. “It is quite real; really strange.” After a while, standing and waiting took also the attire of nothingness. I went forward toward the unknown; the direction seemed somewhat consequential but mostly unimportant.
Patrick M. OhanaPublished 3 years ago in FilthyWhat’s Up Pussy
Once upon a time in a somewhat rural town lived a prick whose name is unimportant. He decided it. Let’s call him, M, to at least allude to the subtitle. One evening as M was preparing his dinner, there was a knock at the door. He wasn’t expecting anyone, so he looked through the side window and saw a woman, beautiful even through the glass and the anti-insect screen behind it. Surprised, he replied: How can I help you, Ms.?
Patrick M. OhanaPublished 3 years ago in FilthyWriting About Pussy
It’s (how should I type it) queer that writing about pussy, a lot about pussy, within a sexually-oriented story without ever even trying to imply that a woman is defined by her pussy, or as a pussy, raised some reading spirits. I may have on one occasion or two, but it was used ironically and it was funny. Unless the grass kicked in and I found everything funny. No! No! I reread it a few times and it was funny (I proofread at least twice to correct typos and exchange sounds and words).
Patrick M. OhanaPublished 3 years ago in FilthyThe Position of Thanksgiving 2019
This festive Thanksgiving belonged to Mary, my girlfriend, I guess. We haven’t called it anything, yet. While petite, Mary proffers aplenty to recompense any apprehension pertaining to her amplitude. Of course, I don’t have any. How can I? She is perfect. A smaller woman is still intact and actually offers at least one advantage. I can lift Mary easily, even with my bad back, especially in one of our favourite positions. I guess it’s called the Standing 69 (I call it the Outstanding 69). I stand holding her with her pussy cemented to my face (I can also appreciate the vista of her anus), and my penis, pendulous, is in wait of her mouth and or hands. Being tall (over six feet or over 183 cm), she doesn’t reach my penis unless it’s erect, but then it’s rarely not.
Patrick M. OhanaPublished 3 years ago in FilthySex with the Servant
Alexandra glanced furtively up and down the hall before lifting her skirts and ducking down the servants stairwell. At the sharp turn, midway down the stairs, she tilted the hoops in her skirt so she could get around the bend. Some days she wished for the smaller dresses of the servants, if only to get places easier.
Heather KinnanePublished 3 years ago in FilthyMarie, Mary, and Maria
I hate bananas. I digress already. Such a hand holding such a banana which had been kissed and then eaten in one way or another is another story. Let’s delve deeper and spread out into our story, my story of Marie, the French teacher, Mary the concierge (resident caretaker), and Maria the pornstar. You’ll understand that I only met two of the three, but the one that I didn’t still rocks my mind and everything else every other day.
Patrick M. OhanaPublished 3 years ago in FilthyIt May Take Two to Tango
Where do I begin? With the pussy, of course, and in this case, two of them. One for each hand. One for each kidney. I love the feeling of a pussy rubbing against my nonexistent so-called love handles, no matter if the pussy is smooth-shaven or hairy but trimmed. Hell! I’d even accept the Wild West bushy variety. It’s still a pussy underneath all that lucky hair. Can you believe it? I was looking at two pussies at the same time, two pussies in a row, one beautiful pussy next to a second beautiful pussy, one pussy across from another pussy. Two for Tuesday, but it was Friday. TGIF? Those were the days. Now, it’s FOIF (Fuck Off It’s Friday). I still can’t believe my luck, and soon, very soon, you’ll discover why. By the way, luck is always involved to a certain degree when more than one pussy is at stake. One pussy for each ear too. Can you imagine listening to a pussy on each side of your head! I actually told them, the women, not the pussies, that I could die in peace after their pussyfication of my being. I felt like a pussy. You know what I mean. I even wanted to sing. I don’t know, maybe “pussy always on my mind” or “hello, pussy” or better yet, “stairway to pussy.” How I love thee, pussy! Pussies! Don’t let me count the hairs.
Patrick M. OhanaPublished 3 years ago in Filthy