**We have 3 synopsis of dirty slutty stories this week. Whic..

**We have 3 synopsis of dirty slutty stories this week. Which one intrigues you the most? Which one would you like to read?** ***STORY A*** She opens the spare room and gazes at the chains built into the wall. There’s also a small cot, a to ilet, a sink, a mini-fridge, and a small bookcase lined with dog-eared paperbacks. She carries a small pack containing a change of clothes and travel-sized toiletries. “Honey, it’s getting late! Have you secured yourself?” His voice is nervous. Weak. Like a mosquito’s whine. She takes a step into the room. The chains will be cold against her wrists. She will struggle against them for hours as she fills with a terrible and euphoric energy. She will exhaust herself and then read until she falls into a sweaty, restless sleep. “Honey?” calls her husband, the whine taking on the cadence of exasperated anger. “What’s going on?” There’s an open window down the hall from the little room. A summer breeze breathes gently through the mesh screen. She can feel the insistent tug of the full moon. Fuck it. Her husband shakes his fist as she drives away. ***STORY B*** The bar is crowded, but she stalks through the crowd like the graceful animal she is. It’s a Sunday night, but most of the desperate characters who drink at Loki’s Revenge–bikers, dealers, addicts, thieves–do not live according to workday rhythms. She removes her hair clip and shakes her head slightly, enjoying the sensation of thick, jasmine-scented hair cascading down her back. She can feel the eyes on her, hungry and questioning. She glides to the bar, other patrons tumbling from her path. The bartender, a thickly muscled man with a hooked nose and a black eye patch, grins broadly. “You just can’t stay away, can you?” She licks her lips and grins back. “I’m fucking thirsty, you one-eyed bastard.” He chuckles and lines up three shots of tequila. She downs them, one after the other. A predatory gleam shines in her yellow-green eyes that, on most days, are the dull color of moss. “When does your shift end?” she asks slyly. “Right this fucking second.” ***STORY C*** The camper is unkempt and smells like stale weed, but she doesn’t care. She opens the door and runs naked in the moonlight. He sprints after her, following her into the woods. She lets him catch her and spin her roughly into his arms. He smells musky, like a wild animal, and his lips bruise hers. His erection presses into her belly, and she leans into it. He groans and pushes her against an ancient oak. The bark scores her back, but she doesn’t care. In fact, she revels in it. His hands rake against her heavy breasts and belly, and find the damp cleft between her legs. His touch is the opposite of gently and clearly unpracticed, but she rocks her hips, rubbing her clit against his callused palm and allowing two fingers to slide into her. With a gasp and a groan, she wraps one strong leg and then the other around his waist. Their selves fly away, melting into sensations that are hard and soft and hot and cold, all at the same time. Spent, they fall to the damp ground in a tangled heap.