fiction
Erotic, romantic, and sexy fiction for the Filthy community.
Bring Up the Steam
This NSFWerotic, steampunk short story is set in an alternate history, Victorian-era Britain. The sky boiled dark and liquescent, quite at odds with the gnawing anticipation that Lady Lynnea Atherton felt as her carriage drew to a stop in front of the immense building that crouched at the end of Greystock Street. Her driver and attendant, Reginald Lysle, bounced down, and offered her a hand down to the granite sett.
By Diana Aalto8 years ago in Filthy
The Dancer
Maria was a dancer, well that's what she called herself. Others may have used different titles like stripper or pole dancer but Maria preferred just "dancer." For four nights a week she would dance upon stage for gaze of men she despised. Men in suits who had more money than charm. Men who would for a few hours prefer to sit and stare at her writhing torso than spend time with their wives. What made it so ironic was she was extremely good at it. Yes she was great looking and yes she could move but it was more than that. Not just the "tits and ass" but the look! A smile, pout, glance, sometimes a sneer could capture a man's fantasy and send him reaching for his wallet in that vainglorious hope of something more but the most they ever got was a bold unabashed stare as they stuffed notes into her minuscule underwear. Then up and strutting across the stage, all eyes following her every move. Every touch she made upon her breasts, every toss of the head. Each and everyone of them wishing it was their hands caressing, their fingers running up and down her thighs, their tongue on her lips. Then she would glance in their direction and each and everyone of them thought that she danced just for them.
By kelvin matchett8 years ago in Filthy
A Stripper's Move
I really understood the quote, "You're in the right place at the right time" when I came across Oliver Stone, a thirty year old stripper living in Miami. He makes his living dancing in the two popular night clubs down on the main drag and he isn't scared to talk about it from what I can tell.
By Whowoulda Thought8 years ago in Filthy
Office Encounter
As she sat on the edge of the tub, quietly watching the pink bubbles form from the flow of hot water pouring on to them, she sighed. She closed her eyes trying to forget the events of the previous night. They were emblazoned in her brain, they were scorched on her skin, and they were tingling on her lips.
By Cassidy Fitzgerald8 years ago in Filthy
The Pull of Passion
It was one of those days. You know, the kind of day that everything sets you off. Every noise, every word that was spoken to me had my blood boiling. An explosion rested just below the surface of my sanity. By the time I got home, all I wanted was a glass of wine, a bubble bath, and a good book to fall into and forget about the world.
By Vanessa Cherron Riser8 years ago in Filthy
Diving: The Deepest Orgasm (Part Two)
Charles held the side of Sherry's face in one of his large hands, then leaned down and firmly kissed her open mouth, tasting and feeling her deeply with his tongue and lips. His other hand traced the line of her cheekbone, trailing lightly on the side of her neck to her shoulder, and down her arm to her hand. He placed the hand on the front of his board shorts, bringing his head back to gaze at her facial reaction.
By LP Steinbeck8 years ago in Filthy
You Say It's Your Birthday?
You Say it’s Your Birthday? Hey Shawty, it’s yo Birfday! We gonna pawty, like it’s yo Birfday! Shit yes it was. Snuck through yet another year and made it to forty-two. How the hell that had happened, I wasn’t quite sure. But I’m an accepting sort. I’ll take it, no questions asked. Sweet Jesus I was happy, though. And a fucking published author to boot. Memoirs of a Teenage Panty Thief had just come out. Crack me up. Making money off dirty stories. I just wished I could get that dumb song out of my head. Fifty Cent, for Christ’s sake. At my age.
By Julian Finisterre8 years ago in Filthy
The Woman on the Beach
He came here often in the summer, usually late morning, once the sun had risen high enough to clear the line of oak and cottonwood that lined the bluff above, and cast its full strength down on this narrow stretch of sand. Being on the eastern bank of the river, it received sunlight, full and strong, until the bluffs opposite obscured it, and twilight, late and summer-thick, came on. The beach was relatively unknown and so sparsely attended; few but locals knew of its existence and thus there were no hordes of school-free children screaming, splashing, or otherwise disturbing what was a perfectly peaceful place. Those that did come stuck close to the waterline, leaving him the duney scrub to lay back in, to read and contemplate the river, and those few housewives taking the sun of a mid-afternoon.
By Julian Finisterre8 years ago in Filthy
