Smutty Quotes

Don’t give me that shit. I’ve seen what you have on your smutty bookshelf.

Dirty talk is an art. Do it too often, it becomes routine. Never do it, and you’re missing something. Simon did it just right. He was like a perfect bowl of smutty porridge: just right.

Tumbling into a dark, Lewis Carroll labyrinth of filth, pursuing a white rabbit of smut!

Those smutty books sell because women wish their husbands had half the balls the men in those books do.

Cam starts laughing, "Oh, I love it when she reads." He turns to Lucy who's face is starting to contort and turn to a bright shade of red, "She reads these smutty books, like full on dirty shit, full of sex and like... bdsm shit." "I'm not joking boys, they're like full on pornographic. Talking about silky shafts and veiny dicks and shit," Logan is now on the ground holding his side from the pain of laughing too hard. "Sometimes she'll be reading, then all of sudden she'll put her book down and look at me like she wants to eat me, literally eat me!" he yells, laughing harder, still swatting away her hands that are trying to shut him up, "I mean I don't mind it, not at all. It's hot as fuck. And she wants to try everything she reads in these books. Like... everything. She learns everything from these books... so I don't give a shit when, of how much she reads, I get rewards.

Everything was normal and right. There were dishes in the sink and the sound of kids playing in the street and the trains passing smutty wind. Something had settled over the kitchen. Rose kept the colours inside the lines and all the patterns were proper, sensible and neat. Happiness. That's what it was.

When I wrote erotica I had a fascination with the word abdomen. I also, in my smutty days liked the word 'turgid.' it sounded much more dirty than 'hard.

I have lots of plans for you, princess, and every single one ends with my fingers, tongue, or cock inside your sweet little cunt.

Shine bright, you smutty diamond, the world needs more women like you.

It was amazing how I was able to ignore all his cursing, but he knew airplanes. He showed me how to line up straight on the obscene-curse-word runway and how to use the curse-word throttle and rudder to control the blasphemous-curse-word-plane, how to taxi down the smutty-curse-word runway and, when I got up to top speed, how to add up-elevator and how to maintain a simple-curse-word gradual ascent.

Because I love how your eyes fill with light when you read your sneaky smutty books,” I reply honestly before I can stop myself. “And when you’re happy, I’m happy.

Sloane is probably holed up in her house with a smutty book and her demonic cat.

I have tutored Little Igor to be a man of this world. For example, I exhibited him a smutty magazine three days yore, so that he should be appraised of the many positions in which I am carnal. 'This is sixty-nine,' I told him, presenting the magazine in front of him. I put my fingers--two of them--on the action, so that he would not overlook it. 'Why is it dubbed sixty-nine?' he asked, because he is a person hot on fire with curiosity. 'It was invented in 1969. My friend Gregory knows a friend of the nephew of the inventor.' 'What did people do before 1969?' 'Merely blowjobs and masticating box, but never in chorus.

she swore in good mouth-filling oaths, but never smutty ones, and that was uncommon. She knew the prosody of profanity. . . . she knew the tune, as well as the words. She was not a raving beauty, but she had fine eyes and a Pre-Raphelite air of being too good for this world while at the same time exhibiting much of what this world desires in a woman, and I suppose I gaped at her and behaved clownishly.

Oh, God,” I cursed. A grin crept onto her lips. “Pretty fucking close,” she said, breathing heavily. A pause followed. “But no. The opposite.” A wicked smile appeared on my face. She was sent to me by Satan himself.

A Glimpse" A glimpse through an interstice caught, Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark’d seated in a corner, Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand, A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest, There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.

She talked like that. But I understood what she meant. About having another you inside that isn't anything like you. Dorcas and I used to make up love scenes and describe them to each other. It was fun and a little smutty. Something about it bothered me, though. Not the loving stuff, but the picture I had of myself when I did it. Nothing like me. I say myself as somebody I'd seen in a picture show or a magazine. Then it would work. If I pictured myself the way I am it seemed wrong.

I love you," he repeated, quieter this time, as if he only wanted me to hear. "I love your smutty books, and your weird documentaries, and your obsession with orange, processed snacks." I choked on something between a laugh and a sob. "I love the way you dress, and the way you light up when you talk about the universe, and the way you saw through every wall I tried to put between me and the rest of the world and knew who I was even when I didn't." He shook his head, licking his lips before he continued. "I love how you believe in me, and how you burn to prove everyone wrong when they size you up too quickly. I love that you challenge me." I leaned into his palm, bottom lip quivering before I bit down to hold it still. "I love everything about you- big and small, silly and serious. And I'm sorry I was an idiot and tried to end our story before it even had the chance to begin.

We’re going to be spending so much time together, Anastasia. I’m about to cockblock you at every available opportunity. You can do what you want, obviously. But good luck trying to fuck someone that’s not me.” Her eyes brighten, heat flushing her cheeks instantly. “Is that supposed to be endearing? Feels a little possessive and toxic.” The corner of my mouth tugs up, loving that this is my day now. “Don’t give me that shit. I’ve seen what you have on your smutty bookshelf.

I'm going to fuck you until you cum so many times its my face you will see when you think of God.

The reactionary of any kind condemns sexual pleasure because it stimulates and repulses him at the same time. He is unable to solve the conflict within him between sexual demands and moralistic inhibitions. The revolutionary refutes the perverse, unhealthy kind of pleasure, because it is not his kind of pleasure, because it is not the sexuality of the future, but the sexuality which results from the conflict between instinct and morals, the sexuality of authoritarian society, a debased, smutty, pathological sexuality.

Check the top 1000 books on Amazon. Most of them have a shirtless guy on the cover, because they're smutty "romance novels" (read: porn for women) about a girl being swept off her feet by one (or more) billionaire alpha-males. There are literally tens of thousands of books out there about shirtless billionaire alpha-male vampires who can't wait to mate with you. Lucky you! And women eat that shit up! Men, not so much. Men prefer to watch actual porn.

The poem is probably Ovid’s smutty guide to urban adultery, the Ars Amatoria–Art of Love–in which he tells his readers how to flirt with smart young city women, and how to take things quite a bit further than that. This jokey guide was at odds with the ostensible morality reforms which Augustus had ushered in after becoming emperor.

to a surprising conclusion about this moment in our lives. No, it’s not that there are weird freckly spots on the back of our hands, although there are, or that construction guys don’t make smutty comments as we pass, although they don’t. It’s that we’ve done a pretty good job of becoming ourselves, and that this is, in so many ways, the time of our lives. As Carly Simon once sang, “These are the good old days.” Lots of candles, plenty of cake. I wouldn’t be twenty-five again on a bet, or even forty.

I'm sure we could have so much fun, but only if you learn to be good to me.

Some smutty book. It had great reviews online, but eh. I’m like over a hundred pages in and I kind of just want them to fuck now.

If I’d said that to my sensible, smutty, twelve-year-old self, he would have laughed until he hemorrhaged

They are going to come in here all hopped up on their latest smutty book, cackling like a coven of witches. And then they’re going to want to know everything about you.

A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest, There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.

Is this the result of her reading smutty books? Because o-fucking-kay, I’ll buy her the whole damn romance section and turn a room into a library for her.

Never try to keep it professional, keep it smutty, write with bodily fluids on sandpaper, and damn the men with clipboards in white suits, the literary bean-counters, the prose police.

Because you took advantage of a sinner because you took advantage because you took because you took advantage of my disadvantage … “That’s good, you know. That’s damned good.” … when I stood Adam-naked before a federal law and all its stinging stars “Oh, grand stuff!” … Because you took advantage of a sin when I was helpless moulting moist and tender hoping for the best dreaming of marriage in a mountain state aye of a litter of Lolitas … “Didn’t get that.” Because you took advantage of my inner essential innocence because you cheated me— “A little repetitious, what? Where was I?” Because you cheated me of my redemption because you took her at the age when lads play with erector sets “Getting smutty, eh?” a little downy girl still wearing poppies still eating popcorn in the colored gloam where tawny Indians took paid croppers because you stole her from her wax-browed and dignified protector spitting into his heavy-lidded eye ripping his flavid toga and at dawn leaving the hog to roll upon his new discomfort the awfulness of love and violets remorse despair while you took a dull doll to pieces and threw its head away because of all you did because of all I did not you have to die

Jeffrey’s arrest a few years back—the dropped charges, the smuttiness of the coverage—ruined the whole enterprise, canceled the club. But he’d gotten off lightly, so they had moved on with life. She’d remained in southern Florida and made out on elderly targets for fun and some liquid cash. Newly minted retirees with more than a little savings love to feel as though they’ve met the right people, the kind of people who will help to establish them as the big shots they’d thought they had been in their heyday. It was an easy con: a simple promise of a private investment and suddenly there was a check.

Free-market economics is an antiquated, smutty and careless box of tricks whose whimsical main flaw is clear even to a child. Still look how many adults fall breathlessly with lust to its promise -- even though they must abandon empathy and moral judgment to embrace it. "Their dirty secret puts all their intelligence to work throwing dust in the air around one glaring truth: that without trickery or eroding value, without extortion, manipulation, deceit or outright theft -- profit will simply not perpetually grow.

The fact that nine-tenths of all the smutty literature, artistic tripe and theatrical banalities, had to be charged to the account of people who formed scarcely one per cent. of the nation - that fact could not be gainsaid. It was there, and had to be admitted.

To long car conversations, explanatory knee-swaying videos, and Christmas puns. This one’s for us, Katie. And for everyone else in need of an escape during an otherwise, “I’m gonna need to take another deep breath” kind of day. This is for you too. Here’s to a smutty holiday season!

This one’s for the reader that declared in a Facebook group that she uses ctrl + f to search for the word “cock” at the start of a story to make sure she doesn’t get tricked into reading a “closed door” romance by mistake. Shine bright, you smutty diamond, the world needs more women like you.

To cover his tracks and mask his erotic withdrawal, he took pleasure in good-naturedly dirty stories and mildly ambiguous allusions, all delivered loudly and with laughter. The mother was his best ally, ever quick to support him with smutty remarks that she would pronounce in some exaggerated, parodic manner, and in her puerile English. Listening to the two of them, Irena got the sense that eroticism had once and for all turned into childish clowning.

You'll be staying in your old room.' As if she had any sort of claim on this place. On anywhere at all. He went on, 'My room's a level above that.' 'Why would I need to know that?' The words snapped out of her. He began walking toward the glass doors that led into the mountain's interior. 'In case you have a bad dream and need someone to read you a story,' he drawled, a half smile dancing on his face. 'Maybe one of those smutty books you like so much.

We all know that sex is the most interesting topic in the world. We love to talk about sex. There's no juicier gossip than who is sleeping with whom. And we love to read about sex. Check the top 1000 books on Amazon. Most of them have a shirtless guy on the cover, because they're smutty "romance novels" (read: porn for women) about a girl being swept off her feet by one (or more) billionaire alphamales. There are literally tens of thousands of books out there about shirtless billionaire alpha-male vampires who can't wait to mate with you. Lucky you! And women eat that shit up! Men, not so much. We men prefer to watch actual porn. And there's a perfectly good explanation for that.

After being conditioned as a child to the lovely never-never land of magic, of fairy queens and virginal maidens, of little princes and their rosebushes, of poignant bears and Eeyore-ish donkeys, of life personalized, as the pagans loved it, of the magic wand, and the faultless illustrations—the beautiful dark-haired child (who was you) winging through the midnight sky on a star-path in her mother’s box of reels—of Griselda in her feather-cloak, walking barefoot with the Cuckoo in the lantern-lit world of nodding mandarins, of Delight in her flower garden with the slim-limbed flower sprites … all this I knew, and felt, and believed. All this was my life when I was young. To go from this to the world of “grown-up” reality … To feel the sexorgans develop and call loud to the flesh; to become aware of school, exams (the very words as unlovely as the sound of chalk shrilling on the blackboard), bread and butter, marriage, sex, compatibility, war, economics, death, and self. What a pathetic blighting of the beauty and reality of childhood. Not to be sentimental, as I sound, but why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life? To learn snide and smutty meanings of words you once loved, like “fairy.” —From The Journals of Sylvia Plath

President Theodore Roosevelt had created the bureau in 1908, hoping to fill the void in federal law enforcement. (Because of lingering opposition to a national police force, Roosevelt’s attorney general had acted without legislative approval, leading one congressman to label the new organization a “bureaucratic bastard.”) When White entered the bureau, it still had only a few hundred agents and only a smattering of field offices. Its jurisdiction over crimes was limited, and agents handled a hodgepodge of cases: they investigated antitrust and banking violations; the interstate shipment of stolen cars, contraceptives, prizefighting films, and smutty books; escapes by federal prisoners; and crimes committed on Indian reservations.

Around me shone the kitchen I'd worked in each day: the copper pans hung neatly, the scratched wooden table and neat blue plates set in rows on the dresser. I got up to rake out the cinders and suddenly clutched at the black stone of the hearth. How long was it since as a new girl I'd first spiked a fowl and set it to roast on that fire? What great sides of beef had we roasted on the smoke-jack, while bacon dangled on hooks, and meat juices basted puddings as light as eggy clouds? Never, in all my ten years at Mawton, had I let that fire die out. Every dawn, in winter or summer, I'd riddled the dying embers and set new kindling on the top. I touched the rough stone and let my cheek press on its everlasting warmth, wishing I could take that loyal fire with me. Foolish, I know, but a fire is a cook's truest friend. It was a good fire at Mawton: blackened with hundreds of years of smoking hot dinners. I think no heathen ever worshipped fire like a cook. So I kissed the smutty hearth wall and packed instead my little tinderbox, to light new fires I knew not where.

Il avait pris le temps de l’analyser sous tous les angles et il aurait pu la reconnaître parmi des milliers de personnes. Il ne pouvait pas nier qu’il la trouvait intrigante… Et il n’était pas du genre à refouler ses fantasmes. Il savait que Lee le détestait, mais lui, il ne l’avait pas oubliée. Comment pourrait-il l’oublier ? Depuis le tournoi, il n’avait jamais oublié la flamme qu’il avait vue dans ses yeux au moment de sa défaite. Il l’avait écrasée et il n’éprouvait pas une once de culpabilité… Elle le méritait, ce n’était qu’une petite vantarde. Ce désir qu’il éprouvait pour elle aurait dû se dissiper depuis autant d’années, et pourtant, il brûlait toujours en lui. Il était même devenu plus intense, plus fou. Il se réjouissait de pouvoir la traquer, il adorait jouer.

He lives hard, works hard, has but few comforts and fewer necessities. He has but little, if any, taste for reading. He enjoys a coarse practical joke or smutty story; loves danger but abhors labor of the common kind; never tires riding, never wants to walk, no matter how short the distance he desires to go. He would rather fight with pistols than pray; loves tobacco, liquor and women better than any other trinity. His life borders nearly upon that of an Indian. If he reads anything, it is in most cases a blood and thunder story of sensational style. He enjoys his pipe, and relishes a practical joke on comrades, or a corrupt tale, wherein abounds much vulgarity and animal propensity.

Scaife rationalized his foundations’ funding of an obsessive investigation of President Clinton’s marital infidelities during the 1990s that came to be known as the Arkansas Project. Hiring private detectives to dig up dirt from anti-Clinton sources, the project funneled smutty half-truths to The American Spectator magazine, which was also funded by Scaife’s family foundations. Scaife’s foundations also poured money into lawsuits against Clinton, all of which helped whip up the political frenzy that led to the Clinton impeachment hearings.

shall make a point of going,” said Henry Foster. Mustapha Mond leaned forward, shook a finger at them. “Just try to realize it,” he said, and his voice sent a strange thrill quivering along their diaphragms. “Try to realize what it was like to have a viviparous mother.” That smutty word again. But none of them dreamed, this time, of smiling. “Try to imagine what ‘living with one’s family’ meant.” They tried; but obviously without the smallest success. “And do you know what a ‘home’ was?” They shook their heads.

In case you have a bad dream and need someone to read you a story,” he drawled, a half smile dancing on his face. “Maybe one of those smutty books you like so much.

What the fucking fuck? Is this the result of her reading smutty books? Because o-fucking-kay, I’ll buy her the whole damn romance section and turn a room into a library for her.

Athena, there’s never a dull moment with you is there?” I chuckled.

He should narrate the smutty audiobooks I loved to listen to. It would be like having a sexier James McAvoy whisper in your ear.

So, take that insufferable ego and shove it somewhere, anywhere, I don’t care! Now let me fix this!' -Ivy

we blast taylor swift and harry styles and read smutty romance novels, and it’s like we are finding ourselves all over again, because in many ways, we are.

No—he thought bleakly, in reluctant admission—money meant nothing to him any longer. He had thrown dollars about by the hundreds—at that party he had given today—for unfinished drinks, for uneaten delicacies, for unprovoked tips and unexpected whims, for a long-distance phone call to Argentina because one of the guests had wanted to check the exact version of a smutty story he had started telling, for the spur of any moment, for the clammy stupor of knowing that it was easier to pay than to think.

I am going to fuck this soaked little cunt with my fingers now. And I won’t stop until I’ve abused the poor thing so bad, your cum will run down your thighs. And then I’m going to lick it up until you’ve satiated my thirst. And I. Am. Thirsty.

This—with the sounds of my boyfriend making me food in the kitchen, a smutty book on my Kindle, and a cat purring at my side—is everything I ever could’ve wanted. It’s the kind of peace and contentment I never thought I’d have, the quiet, perfect moments I used to dream about when I was alone. It’s the feeling of being right where I’m meant to be.

Here’s to a smutty holiday season!

Smutty managed to vomit his furball in my slipper last night.

Dedication This book is dedicated to readers who enjoy insta-love in smutty books as much as I do.

Cursing, telling smutty stories, smearing the good name of another, and referring irreverently to God and the Scriptures may be considered as coming under the expression corrupt speech. Our speech is to be clean, pure, and wholesome.

...there had always been a God and a Devil—only men had been so mistaken about the shapes of their Devil—he was not single and big, he was many and smutty and small.

I would totally support a pond scene like the one in PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, but only if you were stripped first." He slid her a glance out of the corner of his eye. She was giving him a lascivious grin that made him feel like singing at the top of his lungs. "You have a smutty mind, Alice. It's one of the many things I admire in you. Unfortunately, we are in a holy place, and although I don't particularly hold strong religious feelings, I feel it would be insulting to the caretakers of this cathedral to give in to your lustful desires and engage in sex right her and now." He thought for a moment. "Although I have to admit it is a tempting thought...

Yara_wantsurcock just shared her vibrator app details with you.

He kissed her deeply then, pouring all his heart into their interweaving lips and souls. This kiss held love, not lust; promise, not hope; relief, not fear.

Besides, if I had stayed, I’d probably have forced her to tell me what the fuck João had wanted this morning. But that would make me sound like a jealous, possessive motherfucker, and I didn’t simp for any girl at Redwood, especially one who made smutty sex stories in her free time.

Hell, a couple of minutes ago, I was calling him cute, and this man was still holding my smutty stories over my head, promising to blackmail the fuck out of me. First, it had been my body-betraying syndrome that I had caught from the romance books I had written and read. Now, it was some sort of Stockholm syndrome. Jesus Christ.

Is Gage doing research? The only thing I’ve ever seen him read is Les’ smutty books.

Besides, I want you naked and in my bath when I get back… and I’m sure you’ll keep yourself busy reading one of your horny books.” There’s a spluttering noise that comes out of me, and I damn near fall off my stool. Absolutely no way did this man just say those words. But Colt’s hazel eyes glow with boyish mischief. “Oh, don’t think I don’t know what you’ve got on that innocent-looking little device of yours.” “What do you know about the types of books I read?” I’m incredulous, but have absolutely no right to be. He’s correct. My Kindle is brimming with the most deliciously smutty books imaginable. “Oh, I’m sorry… reading serious literature over there every night, are you, angel?

In a garden of thorns, Ren saw the flower blooming despite the hardships. Kai has never seen the thorns; all he's ever witnessed are the beautiful petals... and I can't bear the thought of Kai prickling a finger and bleeding on my account.

Oh my gawd!” Dawn squealed, walking down the hallway with Jules filling her in on the night before. For a woman almost in her 50s, she sure had some energy and pep. Sometimes she sounded like a schoolgirl. “Shh!” Jules reached over, tugging on Dawn’s arm as they walked down the hall. “Don’t tell the whole world,” she chuckled. “Is it normal to feel like this? I mean, I get horny just thinking about it!” Jules whispered even more quietly. “Hot damn, girl!” Dawn was the first to grab their usual corner table in the breakroom. “Whaddya mean is it normal? To crave—” Her voice got church mouse quiet, “—sex?” “Honey, yes with a capital Y. It is if it’s that good!” Dawn replied. “Lord, have you not felt this way ever before?” she asked, her eyes widening in disbelief. Jules shook her head no. “But you know what keeps it so hot for me, Dawn? That I feel completely in control of the situation. I had him come over, we hung out and had fun, and I screwed him.” She said that part with a big grin. “I even wanted him to leave afterwards, and I have no desire to pursue it any further!” She didn’t believe herself, but hoped if she kept repeating this thought her feelings would soon follow.

I’m going to need you to shut the fuck up and take our cocks like a good girl.” A puff of air leaves my lungs, and I slowly turn my head to look at him. It's like he just stepped out of one of my smutty books and holy fuck, is it hot.

She'd found a smutty novel she'd already read and loved in one of the trunks Elain had packed, and had laid it on the desk. She'd said to the air, 'I found this for you. It's a present.' The book had vanished into nothing. But in the morning, she'd found a bouquet of autumnal flowers upon her desk, the glass vase bursting with asters and chrysanthemums of every colour.

Cassian’s voice dropped an octave. “Is that what those smutty books teach you? That it’s only at night?

You have the prettiest little pussy I have ever seen.” My hips involuntarily thrust upward at that and he chuckles tauntingly. “Widen those legs for me.

I want to feel you squeeze around my fingers. I want to taste you on my fucking tongue. And fuck, sweetheart… I want to be inside you. I want to pound into you until you’re a sobbing little mess.

Don’t give me that shit. I’ve seen what you have on your smutty bookshelf.

Don’t give me that shit. I’ve seen what you have on your smutty bookshelf.

Maybe one of those smutty books you like so much.

What is this?" It appeared to be written in Ljoslander. "A novel," he said. He pulled out another book, which I barley caught. " On the smutty side, I'm afraid - not to your tasted at all.

Doesn't count when you use your hands to do most of the work.' Nesta schooled her face into utter disdain, even as a hiss rose inside her. 'I bet that isn't what you've been telling yourself at night.' Azriel's shoulders shook with silent laughter as Cassian set down his fork, his eyes gleaming with challenge. Cassian's voice dropped an octave. 'Is that what those smutty books teach you? That it's only at night?' It took a heartbeat for the words to settle. And she couldn't stop it, the heat that sprang to her face, her glance at his powerful hands. Even with Azriel now biting his lip to keep from laughing, she couldn't stop herself. Cassian said with a wicked smile, 'It could be anytime- dawn's first light, or when I'm bathing, or even after a long, hard day of practice.' She didn't miss the slight emphasis he put on long, hard. Nesta couldn't stop her toes from curling in her boots. But she said with a silent smile, striding for the doorway, refusing to let one bit of the discomfort in her sore legs show, 'Sounds like you have a lot of time on your hands, Cassian.

The House had dinner waiting on her desk, along with a book. Apparently, it had noted her request for a book the other day and deemed The Great War too dull. The title of this one was suitably smutty. 'I didn't know you had dirty taste,' Nesta said wryly. The House only responded by running a bath. 'Dinner, bath, and a book,' Nesta said aloud, shaking her head in something close to awe. 'It's perfect. Thank you.' The House said nothing, but when she stepped into her bathroom, she found that it wasn't an ordinary bath. The House had added an assortment of oils that smelled of rosemary and lavender. She breathed in the heady, beautiful scent and sighed. 'I think you might be my only friend,' Nesta said, then groaned her way into the tub's welcoming warmth. The House was apparently so pleased by her words that as soon as she lay back, a tray appeared across the width of the tub. Laden with a massive piece of chocolate cake.

Power beyond words lurked in the beast’s gaze, a magnetic force that ensnared my vision. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the creature. Its serpentine tongue crept out, moist and glistening. Circling and circling and circling. I rolled my hips in tune, and an ungloved thumb caressed the sensitive nub. My mouth stretched into a silent scream, covered by a writhing tentacle.

My curiosity aroused, I flipped to another page. 蛸と海女: Tako to Ama, trans. ‘The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife.’ Head thrown back, eyes closed, a nude woman lay sprawled ashore. Her brows creased in anguish and ecstasy. As she was pleasured by a large octopus. No, octopi. I trailed a finger along the suctioned underside of the creature’s appendage to her breast where a smaller octopus latched onto. The painting might’ve been unmoving, but it held an animated quality. The woman writhing on the shore; the fluid movements of the sea creatures as the trio derived mutual pleasure from their strange encounter. Their visceral desire seeped through the page, and I was but a voyeur.

Talking about smutty books with this book boyfriend come to life? Fuck me running, my shitty night had taken a sudden turn for the better.

Is that what those smutty books teach you? That it’s only at night?

There’s something about getting lost in a movie, allowing it to pull you from surroundings, letting you enter their world. I imagine this is what Red is like when she’s reading her smutty books all the time.

weekly smutty novel club with mine.

You know I’ve been seeing STFUATTDLAGG floating around a lot on those smutty social media groups.

Garters under a conservative gray suit, Professor?” he murmured, his fingers running under the straps holding up her stockings. “Do you know how hot that is?” “I like to keep my smuttiness carefully concealed.” “You’re not fooling me,” he whispered. “I’m not trying to, but you’re the only one who knows.

No more smutty books. Wait, that’d make work even more boring. No more for at least a day. Half of one… A couple minutes.

Sexual preferences should be kept private, Sam maintained, while happy to broadcast his own smutty wit with the lads, given the chance.

Quinn called them my “smutty books” because nearly all of them had a shirtless man on the cover and contained lots of yummy on-page sex. Smutty or not, I fucking loved them. My own life sorely lacked romance, so reading about gay dudes falling in love helped me escape my own sad reality for a while.

You’re kind of a strange girl, Fern Taylor,” Ambrose said softly, his eyes on hers, his right eye sightless, his left eye trying to see beneath the surface. “I’ve seen those books you read. The ones with the girls on the front with their boobs falling out and the guys with the torn shirts. You read smutty romance novels and quote scripture. I’m not quite sure I have you figured out.” “Scripture comforts me, and romance novels give me hope.” “Oh, yeah? Hope for what?” “Hope that I’ll be doing more than quoting scripture with Ambrose Young in the very near future.” Fern blushed furiously and looked at her hands. Ambrose didn’t know what to say. After a tense silence, Fern put the car into drive and eased it back onto the wet road.

You want to know what she does?” Gage sits up on the couch, animated. “She’s a superhero. She flies around with her megabat wings and saves the city.” Alessa rolls her eyes. “Shut up, and stop reading my smutty books.

Cassian shoveled more eggs into his mouth and said around them, “Doesn’t count when you use your hands to do most of the work.” Nesta schooled her face into utter disdain, even as a hiss rose inside her. “I bet that isn’t what you’ve been telling yourself at night.” Azriel’s shoulders shook with silent laughter as Cassian set down his fork, his eyes gleaming with challenge. Cassian’s voice dropped an octave. “Is that what those smutty books teach you? That it’s only at night?

But I’ve read enough smutty romance to know that sort of thing won’t stop a pervy priest.

Oh my god!” she cries. “It’s Nora Stephens fan fiction!” “Can it really be called fan fiction if the author clearly isn’t a fan?” I say. “Has she sent you more? Does it get smutty? Lots of fan fiction gets smutty.” “Again,” I say, “not fan fiction.

I hope it gets smutty,” she says. “Libby, if you had your way, every book would end with an earth-shattering orgasm.

Part of my newly found confidence stems from—listen to this—reading smutty books. That’s right.

I could haul you onto my horse and disarm you further. That’s a trope in certain smutty novels, you know.