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Indulge in an Unforgettable Journey of Passion and Temptation with Emily White's Erotic Masterpiece! Step into a captivating world where seduction knows no bounds in Emily White's latest collection of scintillating erotic stories, enriched with enchanting hentai illustrations. Immerse yourself in a universe where each word is a whispered promise, and every brushstroke is a visual enchantment that brings fantasies to life in pure hentai style. This collection is a daring invitation to explore the uncharted depths of desire, where pleasure unfolds with audacious strokes and details that will quicken your heartbeat. The carefully crafted hentai illustrations serve as sensuous portals, transporting you into dimensions where every hidden fantasy finds unabashed expression. What to Expect: - A Fusion of Literary Mastery and Sensual Artistry - Explicit and Alluring Hentai Illustrations - Stories That Explore the Boundaries of Lust and Fantasy - A Whirlwind of Seduction and Temptation This isn't just a collection; it's your exclusive ticket to a dimension of hentai eros, meticulously narrated and ardently illustrated by Emily White. Lift the cover and prepare for an intense experience fueled by the flame of passion. Caution: This Collection is Not for the Faint of Heart. Are You Ready to Cross the Threshold?
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Seitenzahl: 109
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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My first Girlfriend
Sexy Erotic Stories for Adults Illustrated with Hentai Pictures
___________________
Emily White
Copyright
Copyright © 2024 by Emily White
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.
Printing and distribution: Heinz-Beusen-Stieg 5 22926 Ahrensburg, Germany
Table of Contents
Copyright
Table of Contents
Introduction
1.THE BIKER
2.I HAVE SEX WITH MY SISTER-IN-LAW
3.TOWEL DROP CHALLENGE
4.ONE EVENING WITH A STRANGER
5.CUCКOLD HUSBAND AND WIFE ON VACATION
6.MY NEIGHBOR BBW
7.MY FIRST GIRLFRIEND
8.A THESIS ON THE PROF'S DICK
Thank You!
Introduction
Welcome to a captivating journey where my enthralling stories seamlessly intertwine with enchanting illustrations that redefine the very essence of desire in the world of hentai erotica.
Within the secret pages of these forbidden tales, I invite you to immerse yourself in a fiery universe of unrestrained passion. Every word is a whispered moan, and each illustration is a visual embrace that transforms the realms of fantasy into tangible reality.
This collection is not for the faint of heart. It's a bold manifesto, an invitation urging you to delve into the dark depths of lust, where pleasure is painted with audacious strokes and details that promise to quicken the rhythm of your heart. The illustrations are provocative gateways, guiding you into sensual dimensions where every hidden desire finds its expression without remorse.
Are you ready to plunge into a whirlwind of seduction and temptation, where the pages themselves transform into a stage for your most secret fantasies? Allow yourself to be carried away into a realm where sin transforms into art, and art seamlessly merges harmoniously with the ecstasy of desire.
Lift the cover and prepare for an experience ignited by the flame of passion. This is not just another collection; it's your exclusive ticket to the boldest manifestations of anime eros, written masterfully by me, Emily White.
THE BIKER
They had arrived on those big bikes one late morning in mid-July, and they certainly didn't go unnoticed.
It is unlikely that the Fortress was a tourist destination for them, certainly they were just passing through, on their way to some gathering of motorcycle fanatics, held around Europe and also here in Italy.
It was beastly hot that day - beach and vacation season was off to a great start.
The beach at Forte dei Marmi was overflowing with bathers: middle-class Milanese families mingled with tourists from northern Europe, giving rise to a variegated Babel of languages, physiognomic traits and styles of dress, a multitude who had come down to enjoy the sunshine of the maritime season in the lavish Versilia setting, united by the solidity of their bank accounts and the arrogance of feeling like V. I. P.
During the day you would find them bivouacking inside exclusive establishments, roasting, soaked in sun oil, on the hot sandy shores: industrialists, show business VIPs, upper middle class upstarts and plaу boу, typical summer fauna of Versilia, who after sunset poured into fashionable clubs, a destination for sweet nightlife.
We were there like every year to spend the season: we were hosted, in the green of the pine forest, by a pretty little villa that had belonged to my grandparents since the 50s, leaving behind the chaotic stress of Milan and the Saharan heat that, at noon, melted the asphalt on Corso Buenos Aires.
There were a dozen bikers: they were riding roaring BSAs and Harleу Davidson Sportster Evolution, those "choppers" models with long forks on the front wheel, celebrated by the movie Easу Rider and even more by the images of the mythical Hell's Angels, the gangs of American Nazi bikers.
They were inspired by those, although these were European, they had large eagles or effigies of skulls, printed on the back of jackets full of metal studs, worn in spite of the African heat of the day.
Obviously they didn't go unnoticed, we didn't see many of them dressed like that roaming the streets of the Fortress: one of the vacation resorts with the greatest stench under their noses: what attracted attention was the roar of the motorcycles announcing their arrival and immediately afterwards their eccentric clothing. They wore frayed black leather pants or jeans with faded and frayed bottoms, they had T-shirts and sleeveless chambraу shirts that probably hadn't seen a wash in months, they also wore bone necklaces or chains with Celtic crosses, and had tribal tattoos on their brawny arms that gave them a wild and dangerous look.
Hair loose at the shoulders or shaved to zero, with grim faces offered to the wind and gazes, concealed by mirrored glasses fixed on the road, did the rest: they were in a hurry, with the contemptuous air of those who don't give a damn about anything, and in particular about good manners.
When they passed by at ninety per hour on Republic Avenue, the shift of air hit my shoulders, messing up my hair.
I chewed on a menthol chewing gum, sweating my soul sitting on a bench in Navari Square in an attempt to find refreshment in the shade of a palm tree, just ahead began the white balustrades of the Fort Pier.
I was listening with my eyes closed, to Duran Duran's latest album, in the earphones of my laptop: the angry roar of the exhaust covered the decibels of my audio player and made me open them again, I saw them parading like a squadron of fighters in combat formation, the shiny chrome of the motorcycles sparkling like diamonds in the late morning light.
They were choreographed in that noisy saraband: spinning rapidly in a thundering cacophony of crazed pistons that made the ground vibrate.
On the promenade or from the terraces overlooking the promenade, hostile or alarmed looks of bathers, followed them with palpable repugnance: unlike them, to me they did not inspire fear or discomfort, indeed, that air transgressive and resolute moved me a certain inner tingling, more so in the lower areas of the groin.
So I stayed for a while watching them, behind the big "Donna Кaran" sunglasses, while the tape in the laptop played, like an unheard rosary, the latest songs of my favorite band of the moment.
Our bathing establishment, with two cabins reserved for the entire season, was just a few steps away: but it was too hot, I didn't feel like standing in the middle of that carnaio, drowning in the stench of sweat and Solar Amber, watching the greasy stares of well-to-do middle-class men with prominent bellies and premature baldness buzzing around me, interested in what my tiny bikini offered their eyes, or lying with their assimilated spouses or young mistresses frying, like dormice in a frying pan, on the burning sand.
Those bikers, seen like that, seemed seriously bad: I had read that they often belonged to criminal organizations dedicated to drug dealing and exploitation of prostitution, they loved alcohol and methamphetamines, violence and rough manners were part of their code of honor, they often clashed between antagonistic groups, giving rise to bloody fights.
The burnt gasoline left a fetid cloud of hydrocarbons in the air, and they disappeared from sight beyond the large curve at the end of the road: the roar of the engines faded away, then began to come closer: they must have reconsidered and made a U-turn: they were coming back.
In fact, they reappeared shortly thereafter, to gather in front of a small snack bar, about thirty meters from me, they were evidently intending to make a small stop, before resuming their journey: they dismounted from the saddle and flanked the bikes along a stretch of sidewalk, with a noisy babel of different languages, they poured into the outdoor area of the restaurant surrounded by tall hedges of hibiscus, they shared the tables and there was a rapid flight of intimidated customers.
I was amused and a bit fascinated by that aura of vitalistic energy that accompanied them, the heat had significantly increased and the mercury would touch forty degrees before noon: I felt the need for something cool, I decided I would go get a popsicle in that small bar crowded with rough bikers.
I didn't mind, combining the useful with the amusing, to have a close look at the rough gang on two wheels: I hunted weapons and luggage in the beach bag and crossed the street heading towards the club.
I wore a tiny bikini, under a short black gauze sundress, my skin was a pleasant bronze-golden color, only a few inches of covered epidermis had maintained its natural color, I felt in great shape, similar to a stunning creole: I could read the confirmation in the eyes of all the males who passed me on the beach and outside.
I reached the place, I walked the short stretch that led from the terrace to the inside of the exercise on my clogs with dizzy heels: I advanced, between tables and rocking chairs, swaying my buttocks artfully, with a gait like a carioca dancer, it is useless to deny that that exhibition aimed to attract the attention of eccentric patrons.
The fact that I had managed to do so was evidenced by the silence that fell to interrupt their conversations: their eyes were polarized on the solidity of my B side or in weighing the seductive volume of my tits, at the bar counter I took my popsicle and ordered tonic water with lemon and lots of ice.
I placed myself on a free rocking chair in front of the group of males and with a quick glance, I reviewed the varied fauna present. The waiter had brought my order and a mountain of assorted sandwiches with large mugs of cold beer that they began to consume with voracity, from inside I had retrieved the newspaper of the day and while I was tasting my stick, I began to scroll through the latest news.
The icicle had a phallic shape, it was sugary and refreshing, I took to suck it without haste, letting it melt little by little between my lips: I lapped the icy tip with small strokes of my tongue and parted lips, deliberately not looking at anyone, showing an absolute indifference, it was the best way to capture the attention.
The passion with which I savored the popsicle must have given me a provocative expression, that work of lips and tongue suggested a scene of oral sex and slowed down their meal, at every little suck of mine several remained with the bite halfway or with the glass suspended in mid-air.
Maybe I would have caused some difficulty in digesting to more than one, that afternoon, but I enjoyed it very much. I couldn't say why I loved to behave in that way: I certainly had a narcissistic nature and I took pleasure in getting involved in uncomfortable experiences, then, as my boyfriend Marco used to say, "I was also a bit of a slut" and we could agree on that.
Possessing the ability to catalyze the interest of unknown men, gratified my self-esteem, it was exciting to play with their desire, I felt like a cat at a mouse convention and it gave me a thrill of voluptuousness.
The hedge that bordered the dehors created a visual barrier with the outside, no one from the street could see what was happening inside: it was like being inside a small theater, where I was the attraction of the show and they were the audience.
I decided to put my foot down: to excite them at my pleasure, gave me a sinful vertigo, then, isolating my mind, I estranged myself from what I had around: in the fantasy the icicle became a male sex, I would have made them crazy.
I slid my tongue, with studied slowness, down to the graft of the wood in the base, then in the opposite direction, up to the apex: I let my lips slide on the icy shaft and I sucked the nectar, finally I sucked it entirely inside my mouth, the juice dribbled and dripped on my chin: I collected it with my fingers and brought them back to my lips. Like a greedy child, I licked my sticky fingers.
A real blowjob wouldn't have worked any better for me and I was aware of that.
I lifted my gaze to see the effect I had on my audience, I even removed my glasses so that the mischievous provocation that illuminated them could be read in my eyes.
The gazes of the men were all for me: they appeared tense, for sure even that the sexes, in the tight pants were putting a strain on the zippers that closed them, I imagined droplets, white as tears, rising from those turgors and wetting the briefs with humors.
If we hadn't been in a public place, they wouldn't have just watched, they would certainly have pulled out those swollen sexes and started touching themselves: their hands would have taken possession of my breasts to feel their consistency and they would have squeezed my nipples exhaustingly, excited by my lascivious sighs.
They would have spread my thighs, to search for the warm softness of my sex, their fingers would have poked anxiously into my orifices, tongues and mouths would have licked, salted and bitten greedily into my flesh: they would have raped me in groups.
That thought was making me wet with secretions.
