Your erotic stories

I was lost deep in thought as I worked on the month end reports for the VP when I heard my office door softly opens and then shut. Curious as to who would be bothering me at this time of the month, I glanced up from my cluttered desk to see who was disturbing me when I saw my girlfriend Meghan standing at the door to my office dressed to kill, or maybe I should say tease all the men (and women). Meghan has long curly brown hair that frames a beautiful oval shaped face, with the deepest brown eyes you've ever seen.

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I've always been a hairier-than-average guy, and I've always been grateful that, in the body-type lottery, I was given a hairy one. Mind you, I'm not the hairiest guy you'll ever meet -- not like those guys who get nicknames like 'Bear' or 'Ape' -- but my chest and shoulders have a nice, ample covering of hair, and my arms and legs, too. I was 'That Kid' in junior high -- the first guy in my class to hit puberty, the guy the other boys gawked at in the showers after gym class.

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Karla didn't seem to be avoiding Professor Daren exactly, it was just that the pretty redhead wasn't dressing as slutty as usual. Maybe he'd finally beaten the last of her teasing ways out of her the last time she'd come to him after class… but he couldn't help but feel a pang of regret.

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I arrived a little early to my second date with Chloe. I was nervous. She was definitely a cool girl, but she had a mischievous aura about her - I never knew what she would do next. I guess that would be expected because for all intents and purposes she really was still a stranger, but I felt a crazy kind of energy being around her. Tonight I was picking her up at her apartment, a nice place downtown.

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It had been quite a while since I'd heard from an old boy-hood friend of mine. When he called, I figured it was just one of those catch-up kind of phone calls. Boy was I wrong! "Danny boy!" he began. I grimaced over the phone. I hated it when anyone called me Danny. The name was Dan. "Yeah? What's up?" I responded keeping that edge of irritation out of my tone of voice. I didn't need to egg him on any more by letting him know that.

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You have to understand this: despite my lover's sexuality and beauty, she tends to hide her light under a bushel in public. She rarely wants her physical appearance to be the center of attention. It's a long story as to why this is so, and perhaps that's a story for another time. Suffice it to say that she reminds me of a line from the movie, Moulin Rouge:

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My wife of 40 years has always been reserved when it comes to non traditional sex. That's never stopped me from hoping though. About a year ago, she switched jobs to a project manager for a software firm here in Colorado. She really liked the work as well as the people she worked with. Her boss was a good guy about her age and they hit it off early.

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The sobbing was barely audible over the background of the store's announcements about their various specials, the steady rumble of buggies passing, and various conversations of customers going about their business. I was just there to pick up a couple of things for a late night snack to keep me going at the office.

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Peter was dozing on the London bound train. It was 8.30 on Friday evening. He had had a busy week's work, and as he had nothing planned for the weekend, he had decided at the last minute to head into London in search of some fun. Aged 25, tall, good-looking with shortish, dark hair, he had little problem in pulling girls when he had the mind for it, but had no interest at present in a long term relationship.

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The headline act was about to take the stage but I couldn't wait; I was desperate for a pee and I couldn't hold it in any longer. I was in serious danger of wetting myself. I made my excuses to my friends and hobbled across the crowded field towards the portaloos, thrusting my hands between my legs to prevent an accident.

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