Stories in romance
210 stories · Page 1I stand by the window, my back to them, and hear the rustling of silk and the clinking of thin glass behind me. Down below, the hotel bar is still buzzing with guests, someone shouting a toast, someone crying into a vest. But here, on the twenty-third floor, there are only three people and an entire night that will never be anyone else's. I know why I'm here. I know why she called me. I know he's silent not because he's against it. I turn around. She's sitting on the edge of the huge bed, still wearing her dress—white, heavy, with the corset I laced for her this morning at the hotel, before the ceremony. I remember my fingers sliding along the laces, her laughing and saying, "Don't overdo it, I need to breathe when I say 'I do.'" It was a joke then. Now I look at her, and it seems as if I'm still holding those laces in my hands. He's standing by the minibar. He's wearing a shirt, no longer a jacket, his bow tie untied and hanging a
I heard this story from a woman I happened to talk to on the train. She said she needed to talk, and I, she said, seemed like a good listener. I don't know how true it is, but I remembered what she told me word for word. So, the heroine—let's call her Vera. Thirty-four years old, petite and well-built, with heavy dark hair and a calm, slightly tired face. Not a cover-girl beauty, but one of those women who men linger on longer than intended. Vera worked for a small agency that officially organized private events, but unofficially found escorts. Not prostitution in the traditional sense, more like theater: dinners, receptions, trips, the occasional night out. Vera wasn't the kind of woman to be called on often. She was valued for something else: her ability to get into character. She knew how to be whatever her clients were looking for: a giggly student, a bored wife, a stern teacher. The agency called it "individual support with elements of psychological reconstructi
I offer a story from life, where the details and names have, of course, been changed, but the emotions are very real. A trip out of town with a big group was my Alena's idea. She generally loves getting everyone together—my friends, her girlfriends. It's loud, fun, and almost always ends with dancing around the campfire. This time we're going to a new place; someone mentioned there was a small lake and an old bridge there. I'm driving, Alena's next to me, and in the back, the friends are discussing something, music, and the smell of summer coming from the open window. We arrive. The clearing is excellent, the grill is set up quickly, and the girls are laying out snacks. Alena is wearing a light sundress today, her hair tied up, but a couple of strands have come loose from the wind. I look at her, she catches my eye and smiles, a knowing smile, as if to say, I know what you're thinking. We haven't really seen each other for a week; we've both been work
The downpour came on suddenly, turning the street into one solid wall of water. I'd just picked up my order at the door—a tall paper bag with the Maru-sushi logo—and was about to close the door when I noticed the delivery girl in a light yellow windbreaker and shorts standing on the porch, helplessly watching the torrents of water fall from the sky. Her scooter lay forlornly wet by the curb. "Come in and wait it out," I suggested, retreating further into the hallway. "It's been such a blast for an hour." She hesitated for a second, then stepped inside. The hallway immediately smelled of rain, asphalt, and something sweet—probably her perfume. I closed the door. Now we were standing alone in my bachelor apartment: me barefoot, in shorts and a T-shirt, and she soaking wet. Her thin windbreaker clung to her figure, and I couldn't help but notice her neat breasts, visible through the wet fabric, and her flat stomach. She pulled off her windbreaker, and I almo
Evening descends on the village early. The pines rustle anxiously, sending gusts of cold wind down to the ground. The air is thick with the smell of rotting leaves and stove smoke—someone in the neighborhood has already stoked their fire for the night. I return from a walk along the lake and turn up the collar of my jacket. I spot her on the dirt road leading to our row of plots. She's walking away from the bus stop, bending under the weight of two large bags. I don't recognize her right away—we saw each other a couple of times in the summer, greeting each other over the fence. Now she's wearing a chunky knit sweater, rubber boots, and the hood of an old windbreaker pulled over her head. But her gait—smooth, slightly tired—recognizes her as the neighbor. I catch up with her and offer to help. She looks up at me—light, transparent, squinting against the wind—and silently hands over one bag. We walk side by side. I steal a glance at her. Her sweater is loose, but a gust of
Mid-February was gray, chilly, and incredibly winter-weary. I longed for warmth not only for my body but also for my soul. So when Sasha suggested we escape for the weekend to a country spa complex with outdoor thermal pools, I agreed without hesitation. My bags were packed in half an hour: swimsuits, robes, and a sense of anticipation. We arrived after dark. The complex, illuminated in a warm gold glow, was bathed in clouds of steam rising from the hot pools straight into the frosty sky. The contrast between the biting February air and the promise of scalding water was intoxicating in itself. After quickly changing in our room—spacious, wood-paneled, and scented with eucalyptus—we threw on white terrycloth robes and set out to explore the property. Right from the start, we were advised to start with the hammam to warm up properly. We found a marble room with a warm stone in the center, lit only by a dim starburst of fiber optics on the ceiling. Someone was already inside: through t
Katya and I were that "perfect" couple, the kind everyone sighed about: "How lucky you are." I was a thirty-four-year-old owner of a small construction company; Katya was twenty-nine, a former gold medalist with honors, and now a happy housewife who managed to run the house so well that even my mother couldn't find fault. Katya always did everything right. She cooked right, dressed right, had sex right. We both came almost on schedule, after which she would gently dry herself off, kiss my cheek, and whisper, "Goodnight, honey, you have to get up early tomorrow." I adored her. And at the same time, I was suffocating. Because behind this correctness lurked a woman who, back in college, secretly read Fifty Shades under her desk and blushed to the ears whenever I accidentally caught her doing so. She'd quickly close the tab and say, "That's stupid, I was just curious." And then we'd make love missionary style because "it's safer an
You stayed late in the university library. Your thesis was nearly finished, but the final pages refused to form a perfect picture. Everyone had long since left: students and professors alike. Only the dim light of the old desk lamp on your desk illuminated the stacks of books and the tall wooden shelves reaching to the ceiling. The air was heavy—the scent of old paper, leather bindings, and the faintest hint of dust dancing in the beam of light. It was so quiet you could hear the scratching of your own pen on the page. Your body ached from sitting for so long. You leaned back in your chair, stretching, and your thin blouse clung uncomfortably to your skin. It was stuffy. You wanted to strip off everything unnecessary, remain in just a light skirt, and let the cool library air touch your body. Overcoming your fatigue, you stood up and walked between the rows of shelves—to where the light barely reached. There, in the semi-darkness, you leaned your back against the cool wood of the sh
We set out on the open sea on a small yacht late in the afternoon. The sun was already setting, painting the sky in incredible shades of pink, orange, and gold. A light salty breeze ruffled my hair, and the yacht gently rocked on the waves, as if lulling us to sleep. All around us was an endless expanse of water, not a single shoreline on the horizon. We were completely alone, and this feeling of complete freedom was more intoxicating than the glass of wine we'd had with dinner on deck. I stood by the side of the boat, leaning against the warm wood, watching the sun touch the water, leaving a fiery trail behind it. He came up behind me silently, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pressed his chest against my back. His body was warm, and his arms were strong and gentle at the same time. I closed my eyes and exhaled, feeling the salty breeze mingle with his scent—marine, musky, familiar. We were silent. Words were superfluous. Only the sound of the waves, the lapping of the wat
We set out on the open sea on a small yacht late in the afternoon. The sun was already setting, painting the sky in incredible shades of pink, orange, and gold. A light salty breeze ruffled my hair, and the yacht gently rocked on the waves, as if lulling us to sleep. All around us was an endless expanse of water, not a single shoreline on the horizon. We were completely alone, and this feeling of complete freedom was more intoxicating than the glass of wine we'd had with dinner on deck. I stood by the side of the boat, leaning against the warm wood, watching the sun touch the water, leaving a fiery trail behind it. He came up behind me silently, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pressed his chest against my back. His body was warm, and his arms were strong and gentle at the same time. I closed my eyes and exhaled, feeling the salty breeze mingle with his scent—marine, musky, familiar. We were silent. Words were superfluous. Only the sound of the waves, the lapping of the wat
Her confident gait, long, slender legs in black stilettos, and stunning C-cup breasts, swaying beneath her thin white blouse, instantly captured the attention of every man in the Domodedovo Airport waiting room. And most importantly, this goddess was walking straight toward me. I felt envious glances piercing my back: Nikolai, the project's chief engineer, and suddenly such a beauty was flying with him on a business trip to Kaliningrad. When I was told I was flying to Kaliningrad to secure approvals for a new residential complex with Anastasia, our company's marketing director, I nearly jumped. She was 29 years old, unmarried, but every guy in the office had been drooling over her for a year, dreaming of seeing her naked just once. They said she was a former model, but she was a brainwasher better than any analyst. For me, it was like winning the lottery: two weeks in Kaliningrad with her alone. Anastasia came up, smiled dazzlingly and extended her hand: — Hi, Kolya. Ready f
My name is Elena. I'm thirty-eight, and I had everything a decent woman should have: a successful husband, a daughter, a cat, a mortgage on an apartment in a decent neighborhood, and a lingering melancholy that I hid behind new curtains and the scent of expensive candles. Our marriage had long since become a comfortable cohabitation. Sergey and I had been sleeping in separate rooms for two years now, and his touches, when they happened, were quick and businesslike, like signing a contract. I felt drained, withered, like a houseplant that had been forgotten to be watered. The Energy gym became my escape. It was where I escaped thoughts of unwashed dishes and silent dinners. It was where I felt alive, if only from the muscle pain. And then he appeared in the gym—the new trainer, Alexander. Not a muscular boy, but a man of about forty, with such a calm, confident gaze and hands that seemed to understand the strength and weakness of every muscle. He didn't shout or offer idiotic
It was in Crimea, during that velvet season, when the main crowd of tourists had already left, but the water still retained its summer warmth. A group of five of us, all third-year students, rented a house a couple hundred meters from the beach. The goal was simple: to unwind, sunbathe, and forget about the exams looming on the horizon. I packed a bunch of revealing swimsuits—I wanted to feel like a goddess. Or at least a very confident bitch. The atmosphere was relaxed and casual. We drank cheap wine, grilled shashlik, and chatted until the early hours. And just then, I received a message from Dmitry. We knew each other from university—he taught paid group functional training classes in the building next door. Muscular, lean, with a piercing gaze. He was in his thirties, and he exuded that mature, slightly dangerous confidence that our peers so desperately lacked. It turned out he was also here, working as a trainer for the off-site "Fitness Detox" program at a nearby hotel
The last bus from the city to my remote district center. Ten o'clock at night, exhausted beyond belief. The bus was half empty—a couple of students with headphones in the front, an old woman with bags by the driver, and me in my usual window seat at the very back. Rain streamed down the window in slanted streaks, the streetlights flickered like garlands. I buried my face in my phone, thinking only about getting there and collapsing into bed. At the stop near the business center, she glided onto the bus. She walked unsteadily, holding onto the handrails. She wore an expensive burgundy coat, a pencil skirt, and heels. Her gaze was empty, slightly glassy. The air smelled of frosty air, perfume, and... whiskey. She walked slowly across the bus, swayed, and plopped down on the seat next to me, even though there were plenty of empty seats. “Sorry,” her voice was hoarse, tired. “I’m just... here. Okay?” “Yes, of course,” I moved towards the window. She shrugged off her coat, crumpling
The office was already empty. The silence was broken only by the insistent hum of the system unit under the desk and the occasional click of the keyboard. Alina glanced at the clock in the corner of the monitor: 9:47 PM. In thirteen minutes, her long, hard-won weekend would begin, and she was still tinkering with that damn quarterly report. One error in the pivot table, one incorrect link—and that would be it. Her dream of four days on the couch, drinking wine and watching TV shows was melting away before her eyes. She stretched, hearing a crack in her back. The black tights beneath her formal black pencil skirt rubbed slightly against the leather of the office chair. She'd kicked off her high heels an hour ago, and now her numb toes rested against the cool laminate flooring. Her white blouse was unbuttoned at the top two buttons—a small rebellion against the corporate dress code in the empty space. It was at that moment that the door to her open office creaked softly. “Are you
The New Year's office party was at the penthouse on floor forty-five, and I was late, as usual. The black dress I'd bought with my last money turned out to be a weapon of mass destruction: it hugged every inch of me, and the neckline was so low I could feel the air conditioning blowing in the most unexpected places. The elevator—the only way up—gleamed like polished steel. I flew into it in high heels, almost tripping, and heard a calm male voice: - Allow me. He was already inside. Tall, in a perfectly tailored dark blue suit, jacket off, his tie loose around his neck. His gaze was appraising, but not insolent. I nodded, slipped into the corner, and pressed "45." His long, neatly manicured finger reached out next to him and pressed "48." We stood with our backs to each other, reflected in the mirrored walls. He smelled of something woody and cold, like a winter forest. The elevator slowly rose. I adjusted a strand of hair and caught his gaze in the reflection
...She loved taking pictures of my erect penis on her phone. Naked, without panties or a bra, she squatted and photographed it from every angle.... When it sagged, she'd wrap her lips around it again, bringing it to the desired tension, and take more pictures, experiencing indescribable pleasure.... I loved this game. Erotic mode flowed seamlessly into porn mode, and vice versa. After reviewing our sex photos, we'd once again immerse ourselves in the world of fucking, and it was a creative act, because neither of us knew how this madness would end. After the classics, I'd lay Rita naked on her back on the table, spread her legs, drop to my knees, and begin licking my admirer's genitals. I'd lick deeply and wetly, slowly dancing my tongue around her small clitoris, and launching into a swift tango with two delightful petals, deep within which her vagina glowed pink. The dark skin of my beautiful Creole wonderfully set off this pink tenderness into which I entered,
Pushing my hair over my shoulder, I inadvertently run my fingers down my neck, brushing against my collarbones, and a warm wave of memories, desire, and pleasure runs through my body. No, he never does that - our desire when we meet is too strong for such unobtrusive foreplay - but for some reason it is this reflex of my body that my memory associates with him, as, indeed, many others, and it is so attractive with its delicate, sharp sweetness, like the taste of caramel-mint ice cream. This chain of associations, memories and desires is impossible to break - although I have never tried, why would I? I close my eyes and imagine his hands unbuttoning my dress, his fingers touching my breasts, freeing me of all excess fabric. They squeeze my nipples, and they instantly harden, and I feel the growing wetness below, under the lace of my underwear. Then his lips encircle one nipple, then the other... And I want to press him to me, I stroke his hair, stretch my whole body toward him, archi
I love it when men talk about their dreams—the Beautiful Princess or Queen they want to serve. For many, this remains just a fantasy, but for me, this dream has become reality. I am a Mistress, and one man gave me seven years of his life—seven years of devotion, pain, trust, and submission that have become part of my soul, part of my world. Our acquaintance began timidly: he came to test himself, his limits, to understand how much he could trust a woman who takes complete control. In his gaze, I noticed a mixture of timidity and quiet delight, a desire to surrender, trembling and tension, but most importantly—a willingness to be mine. The first punishment was a test. I made him kneel before me and selected a whip, a belt, and a cane. "Lower your head," I ordered, and his voice trembled: "Yes, Mistress." Strike after strike fell on his skin, leaving stripes and marks. His breathing quickened, his body tensed, he fought back a scream but did not beg for mercy. "Say
What do I want to do with you? I'll treat you to champagne and invite you to dance, slowly undress you, and dress you in my arms. I need to feel you as my prey, my toy, the embodiment of my most forbidden, depraved, and lewd fantasies... Even if only for a little while! Even if only for a few hours! Naked, you'll stand by the window, bend forward slightly, resting your chest on the sill, spread your legs, and I'll lick you from below like a goddess. Then I'll rise, stand behind you, and enter your temple of love and femininity, so that your eyes will fill with the blue light shining outside. What do I want to do with you? Let me play with you and your nakedness, your pliability, your tenderness... Put you on your knees, or squat you, dip my fingers into your hair, and then touch your face, forehead, eyebrows, eyes, nose, cheeks, lips with my lingam... Caress them. And then enter your wet mouth. Give me an oral rhapsody! Adagio and andante, allegro and fortissimo... W