Romantic Steamy Short Stories to read online for Free
Updated: May 18
As you maybe know: we at Filthybooks love all forms of steamy and erotic stories!
Because love, attraction, passion and also sex in all its forms are, at least for us, an essential part for a happy, healthy and exciting life.
And as you know: stories and books are one of the best ways to find inspiration!
That's why we also are so happy to share with you a lot of stories, on different levels of explicitness, for free!
Sometimes we want your sexy story head on, sometimes we want to let our own imagination do the rest...
Two free steamy stories from author David Russel
It isn’t always easy to get your hands on well-rounded steamy short stories. People don’t usually advertise that they like sex and sexy stories, but when it comes to free sensual stories; you can’t go wrong with anything from David Russel.
Having specialized in erotic writing since the 1980’s, David Russel perfectly melds old language with one of the most sought-after delights in human history, sex.
The fact that he can do so using words like gobsmacked, is more reason to read his prose. And, if you like music, he’s also a recorded singer and songwriter, having created a vinyl record of ‘Bricolage’ and two more songs titled: ‘Bacteria Shrapnel’ and ‘The Burglars of Britain.’
The short stories that follow will take you through the heartache of breakup and dive deep into the heart-pounding elation of finally finding love that lasts, and lets not forget the steamy bits.
So without further ado: dive in and enjoy!!!
Flood Lady by David Russel
How many buildings, how many cities have watery foundations? How many relationships seem to be floating on liquid?
Just as some of the buildings in her environs looked, felt shabby and begrimed, so Andrea’s relationship with Theodore seemed to have run out of impetus. For a matter of several months now, he was obviously hiding something from her.
“There’s someone else, isn’t there.”
Chester gave a blushing nod.
“Is it anyone I know?”
He remained evasive, “You probably caught a glimpse of her when you visited my workplace.”
The penny dropped. There was that one who somehow looked shifty and sinister. Andrea had felt a ripple of hostility tinged with admiration. All became clear.
“I get the picture. What are you looking for? A transitory fling – or does this touch the depths”
His silence spoke volumes.
“Well: it’s over between us; I’ll leave the path clear for you. I hope it works out.”
How many relationships feel like cities in microcosm. Andrea felt the double sensation of liberation and desolation. It was good; it was salvation; but it hurt. She could not mope and feel sorry for herself – had to recirculate and remedy the situation. So, on to the hairdressers and the outfitters for that truly positive aura. Then on to one of her favourite haunts – an intellectuals’ café, with subdued lighting, ideally suited to solitary meditation, intense reading and note-taking for those so inclined; ideally suited to intense dialogue for those in mutually confiding mood.
At first sight, he had the perfect combination of qualities – well-toned ruggedness combined with facial features radiating intellect. His black jacket, shirt, sweater, trousers and shoes faced her dark green corduroy suit, her cream blouse, her black stockings and maroon suede shoes. They looked into each other’s eyes, silent, for several minutes. Then, at last, he broke the fast.
“Hi; I’m Darren. You look interesting.”
“I’m Andrea; so do you.”
Conversation was smoothly and swiftly generated.
“So what’s your profession, Andrea?”
“I’m a research architect. I do surveys for Town Planning authorities. I lecture to people about the histories of cities for various historical associations. And what do you do.”
“I’m an engineer diver. I do maintenance and repair work on underwater installations.”
They chatted on about their favourite books and movies, got deeply engrossed, oblivious of time. While they were in the café, the bright day was veiled over; the sky became overcast; be the time they left, it was an inky dark grey. Then came the torrential downpour. They were both rippling, streaming, drenched. But in the great discomfort was a magical frisson. Their mutual magnetism was charged in that savage, chilly torrent.
“Look; you’d better come to my place, where you can dry out and change.”
With something which felt like contrived synchronicity, a taxi pulled up, and they were whisked into shelter. The driver graciously gave them a cloth to dry the seats.
Darren’s apartment was spacious, sparsely but tastefully furnished. His lithe, drenched form accelerated her pulse like wildfire. Looking at her, his eyes were appreciative, savouring, but calm. He reached for his chest of drawers, rummaged for a minute or so, then emerged with some unisex underwear, a shirt, sweater and jeans.
“There; you can go and change in the bathroom.”
The bathroom was centrally heated and deliciously comfortable. There was an abundance of thick bath towels. As she stripped and rubbed herself down, she felt as if she were stripping for him, and that the eyes of his imagination were relishing the beautiful spectacle. And it felt as if he were doing the rubbing down. The warm, dry sensation of the change of clothes was so comforting. She returned to the kitchen, bearing her pile of discarded, drenched garments. He was now in a dressing gown.
“I’ll put your clothes in the tumble drier,” he said with a smile, taking them from her.
She noticed his clothes were already in the drier – so – anticipation of a wonderful blending. Then he picked up a matching change of clothes.
“I’ll follow suit,” he said.
For the few minutes of his change, she felt like a fantasy voyeur. That body could be a source of universal delight. They went into the sitting room, where there was an ample sofa. Darren played some music on the sound system – subdued, moody progressive jazz.
Darren took a deep breath and looked at her intently.
“I was riveted by your lectures; I could keep on replaying them.”
He drew a deep breath.
"I hope this isn’t being a bit bold and forward to me, but we did have a watery introduction to each other – a sort of Baptism. Could we continue the process?”
“Would you like to come diving with me? I’d love to show you round the underwater realm.”
Andrea was gobsmacked: “Oh: that would be fabulous!”
“Have you got a wet suit?”
“No; but I’ve been thinking about getting one for ages. This is just the prompt I needed. Look: I’ve got to go now; I’ll be back in touch when I’m fully equipped.”
What a throb of anticipation! Together they had negotiated the malign waters, and now they were to embrace the benign. She knew she had a beach body to match his, but a wet suit would be great for imagination and suspense. She had prevailed against the water’s surface; now would conquer its depths. And with such a gorgeous partner.
Long ago, Andrea’s grandmother had shown her many films of the underwater expeditions of Hans and Lotte Hass. How long had she had that secret yearning to emulate Lottie. Of course it would be great to wear a comparable swimsuit, but there could always be future occasions . . .
Her self-preening in the fitting room and before her bedroom mirror turned her fully on. So she would her second degree Baptism – and then . . .?
When they reached their rendezvous, the sky was overcast, and there was the suspicion of a chilly breeze. But Andrea now had a thermal wetsuit, and surged with confidence. Somehow the greyness of the sky galvanised the allure of the water.
They embraced and kissed before fitting their masks and goggles.
“I want to carve our names on the base of a submerged pillar, which I can show you.”
How the two of them relished their underwater balletics, their flexing bodies counterpointed by the loving swirls of the polychromatic seaweeds, their embraces giving them a sense of the crustacean. So they plunged to the bed, to the foundation stone of a broken pillar.
There Darren drew a chisel from the zip pocket of his wet suit, and chipped their names, an arrow and a heart. Back into his pocket the chisel; a further embrace, then back to the surface.
They felt a sense of relief, tinged with anticlimax.
“We’d better go back to my place, and dry out our suits.”
Once again the tumble drier did the laps of its sterling, swirling duty. There was a suggestion of steam. Once again, relaxing and chilling out with laid back jazz. Then Darren took a deep breath and looked into Andrea’s eyes.
“You remember I told you I was enraptured by your lecture. That made my intellect and my libido electrify each other. Please recite it to me now: I’m all eyes and ears, body and mind.”
Her hypnotic voice, and the array of data, perfectly relayed through her super-resolution photographic memory, held him in utter thrall. The physicality of the lips gained a perfect fusion with what they were conveying. When her recitation was completed, he felt breathless.
“I am overwhelmed,” he sighed. “Henceforth I’ll do your every will.”
Her eye-contact declared her will with no trace of uncertainty.
Now was the time for the third immersion. In some ways, they felt like two bodies of water. The textures of their skins and muscles echoed the scales, fronds and waves. Their embraces and caresses were suffused with a tidal strength. Their falling garments resonated as sand masses and submerged piles; their final melding rotated – a transcendental whirlpool. They made the transcendental eddies and breakers.
After their none-too-rapid awakening, they took a leisurely stroll towards the café of their first meeting. Andrea saw, disappearing round the corner, Theodore and his partner – the one she had suspected. They were arm in arm, idyllically happy. She felt so good about them – all venom spent. The two couples became mirrors to each other. Perhaps never a foursome, but very happy.
Daphne by David Russel
I caught many glimpses of her as a fleeing form. I wondered if she would ever look my way.
The first eye contact was cosmically penetrating.
I was so surprised at the invitation when Daphne asked me around. I felt surprised and honoured to be beckoned. Interspersed with the art deco furnishings were piles of books, of all ages, shapes and sizes – some brand new, some gracefully yellowing, on the shelves and half-open on tables, chairs and sofas.
“You make me read; you make me think.”
“We must put our bond to the test. It is vital that we make a questing journey together. Come on: let’s cast our fates to the wind; we have to get our thumbs up on the great highway.”
Luckily, this happened around the end of term. Just a minimum of time to wait for the vacation. Those were the days of carefree hitch-hiking, when one felt perfectly safe and globally mobile.
The cars and the lorries were speedy and benign. Finally we reached Paris.
“I’ll contact my old school friend Cressida; she runs a fashion business here. Maybe she can put us up.” She went to the phone, and came back jubilant. “We’re in exceptional luck. She’s just on the point of going away, and would be very happy for us to look after her flat.”
I breathed elation. The apartment was every bit as gracious, as luxurious as her own. Abundant books, lush furnishings, a massive wardrobe. Cressida was vibrant and vivacious, a perfect foil for Daphne; I could sense their rapport. She gave us knowing glances, then put on an overcoat. The doorbell rang; it was her taxi. She picked up her suitcase, and gave us pecks on the cheek.
“Be good, but have fun.”
Daphne motioned me to the sofa.
“Now I’ve got you to myself. I want to guide you; I want to enlighten you. I’ve seen into your eyes; I’ve seen into your mind. I want to know you in your totality, and guide your life mission. I prompted you to search out the details of all those goddesses: I am their beacon, their channel. Now: you’re in luck. We could only bring a minimum change of clothes for our hitch-hiking expedition, but – as you see – Cressida is of a similar build to me. Through the years we have often exchanged and borrowed outfits. Relax a bit while I have a shower and a change.”
My thoughts rose like the steam as I thought of the spectacle behind that closed door. She returned in a pale blue dressing gown, looking utterly refreshed.
“OK: I’m done. You go in after me, while I get changed for this occasion.”
The shower ran deliciously over me. The flow of the water evoked my thoughts of the touch of her hands. The steam rose visible, elevating me with its gaseous essence. There was another dressing gown in the bathroom – pink to counterpoint her blue.
She entered in a Hollywood-worthy black, low-cut evening dress, her steps graceful and swivelling. She drew me up before her, undid the sash and slid the dressing gown from me shoulders. I was levitated by her gaze.
“Well – my Adonis surrogate. You’ve kept yourself in shape for this sacred occasion. Now for the sublime fusion of body and soul. You may divest me.“
How often had I done this in the imagination, in a different, exotic dream setting every time, those palaces, those ballrooms of seduction. I had just seen her once in a bathing suit. How many of the world’s exotic beaches did I dream up for our ultimate beach tryst! I loved the feel of the fabrics, lovely heralds of the beauty they covered. We wafted to the ionosphere of our godheads.
She dragged me to the bedroom. Our union was circular, orbital, cosmic. It felt historic, embracing all past wars, natural disasters and their aftermaths, carried astral reverberations of exploding galaxies. Serene calm followed that total storm. It was followed by a heady sense of health and recuperation. After that, we both lost our immediate sense of time. It felt as if it could have been the same day when Cressida returned. She beamed with approval of our happy state.
“Now we are refreshed, we can pursue the next stage of our quest: the caves of Lascaux. I’ve seen so many photos and prints of those paintings; we’ve got to see the real thing. I am sure they will reveal to us their hidden truth."
So, a wave of goodbye to Cressida, then down to the highway and thumbs up. Happily, we did not have a long wait. A pantechnicon drew up. The driver was quite diminutive, but full of vitality. As we progressed into open country, he accelerated.
“We make good time,” he said – in broken English.
Just when we were getting into a feeling of heady speed, there was a split-second flash of headlights at a road junction, followed by a screech of brakes and a deafening crash. The driver’s cabin was dented; the steering-wheel shaft penetrated his abdomen and heart.
We managed to negotiate the grilling from the Police and the Hospital. We were free to proceed, but felt we had been given a dire warning.
Shaken but calm, we came face to face. Somehow our nascent love could not blossom in the face of that laceration, that bloodshed.
Daphne, with her panoramic vision, put this tragic incident into context and restored equilibrium.
“Let us hope that neither of us will ever witness total war, and that this will be the worst human injury we shall ever have to encounter. Let this horror give us the strength to face later life’s adversities, and let us keep sacred silence.”
Strange to recall this, with simmering Ukraine now, and other conflicts farther away in the background.
The impact, the screech, the grinding, the cracks, the shards felt like the arrival of a personal war – mass humanity’s horror focused on one individual.
“We were lucky to escape with our lives.”
I had to nod in agreement. She gave me a penetrating gaze.
“We must keep this tragedy a secret, only divulging it to those in whom we hold the deepest trust. And we should make a distance between each other.”
“You know there is great depth between us – some sense of being lifelong partners till death do us part. Death could be a jealous entity, and if we stay too long together, may strike us both down. I feel we must take this incident to be a warning.”
The paths wove in and out, globally parting and tentatively, briefly re-linking, but with a powerful sense of an unbreakable bond. I seemed to have gained equilibrium from that trauma, resilience against the buffetings. In more recent years, there was an absence of direct contact. But I heard once that she had got together with a wild American landscape artist, and quite a while later that she was in rehabilitation from drugs and alcohol. She had strengthened me in my younger weakness, left an indelible imprint on me. Pain, death and sickness stared into the mirror of their contrary – beauty, life, and everlasting love, bridging the gulf of age, sickness and mortality. The perfect time found its ice-pack.
Where to find more Romantic and Steamy Stories ... and of David Russel
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