Ambiguous Novels & Stories

"Stop clamping around me so tightly. Just let me in…" Inside the bus, the man behind me flips my short skirt upward before thrusting heavily into me. When I turn around to look at him, I realize that it's Michael Wallace, an older man I've known for a long time. He has yet to realize that I'm his target at the moment. Just as I'm about to reveal my identity to Michael, I see him staring at my face unblinkingly. At the same time, his thrusts become heavier and more forceful.

"You little tease, spreading your legs like that… Trying to seduce me?" Deep in the night, inside a bar's women's restroom, I deliberately exposed myself. Through the one-way glass, I parted my legs, revealing that hidden part of me. But then a man accidentally walked into the wrong restroom. Every bit of my wanton display fell right under his gaze. Shame washed over me, and I felt my cheeks burning. I wanted nothing more than to flee. But he blocked my way, and without a word, flipped up my skirt. I had nothing on underneath. "You like showing off, don't you? Show me more." With that, he exposed his own fierce arousal and pressed himself between my thighs.

After my husband has passed away, I feel my carnal desires building rapidly every single day. At night, I yearn for someone to break and conquer me roughly. I'm at the age when I crave physical intimacy the most. Coupled with the weird ailment, I find myself constantly tormented by my urges all the time. Having no other choice left, I can only turn to the village doctor to treat my embarrassingly weird condition. But little do I know that he'll…

"Hank, there's something hard down there pushing into me." On the driving school car, I was teaching my goddaughter how to drive by letting her sit on my lap, my hands over hers on the wheel. But right after we started, the engine stalled, and the whole car jerked hard. Her round hips settled deep into my thighs. To make things even more intense, she was wearing nothing but a skirt that barely covered her.

I bought a breathtakingly handsome and sculpted werewolf slave from the magic black market. His rock-hard abs were on full display, and his deep V-lines pointed straight down into his tight, low-slung pants. But once I got him home, it was clear something was very wrong. A low, suppressed growl rumbled constantly in his throat. He stared at me with his golden wolf eyes, looking like he wanted to tear me apart and devour me whole. His body burned like a walking furnace. I thought he had wolfsbane fever and frantically contacted the seller. The seller was silent for three seconds after hearing my description. [My dear witch, is it possible he isn't sick, but just...hungry?] [The kind of hungry...that makes a werewolf want to pin you to a wall and sink his fangs into your neck to mark you?]

"Wider, Millie. Yes, that's it." I lay weakly on the examination table, my hands unconsciously gripping the sheets. The voice behind me was low and restrained, but it made my ears burn. This examination position was too embarrassing. My buttocks were forced to arch high like some kind of submissive gesture. "Doctor, I can't open any wider..." I bit my lower lip, my voice trembling deliberately. I could see my reflection in the metal bars of the examination table. My messy hair stuck to my flushed cheeks as my eyes shone with a watery, dreamy glow.

In the dark room, my husband's friend, Jason Laurier, keeps hugging me tightly. He completely ignores my acts of resistance as he keeps touching and kissing me. Only when I gasp out in pleasure does he murmur into my ear, "Let me help you…"

I was a woman with a strong appetite for intimacy. After a car accident, however, my husband couldn't get it up anymore…

Since I moved into this apartment, I kept dreaming about a man every time I fell asleep. The man told me he was my husband. However, I had only just started college. When I woke up, my lower back ached, and my body felt sore. My neighbor was a psychologist, and he prescribed some medication to help me sleep. Unfortunately, the dreams became even more real. One night, the man leaned close to my ear and whispered, “You can’t escape me.”

I spent five years as Dominic Santoro’s wife in name only. Five years hidden behind closed doors, buried under his sheets, erased from his world. When he finally agreed to take me back to Chicago—to stand beside him, to be seen—I thought I had won. I bought a new dress. Soft. Elegant. Worthy of a Don’s woman. The night before we left, he looked at me through the mirror and said calmly, “Take the makeup off. Change into pants.” I asked why. He adjusted his cufflinks like I was nothing more than background noise. “Juliana Lancaster is back. Tonight is our engagement.” Russian Bratva. Lancaster blood. A marriage alliance. Seeing my silence, he laughed—careless, cruel. “What’s with that look? Didn’t we agree on this when we married? Brotherhood. Loyalty. No love.” Then he turned, eyes sharp and mocking. “Victoria Miller… you didn’t actually fall in love with me, did you?” I stood there, frozen. Because inside the inner pocket of his tailored suit— was my pregnancy report. And the Don of Chicago had no idea the woman he was about to sacrifice was carrying his heir.