Your erotic stories

"Come on Brian, seriously. What do you want for your birthday?" Rachel pressed. She'd been after him for a hint, some idea of what he wanted or needed. And though his birthday was still several weeks away, there really wasn't anything he could come up with. Brian and Rachel had known one another for several years. Theirs was a "platonic" though very friendly relationship.

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Thursday night, 10 pm. The waiting queue were shuffling their feet in the cold out on the footpath, waiting for the doors of the Stroke Bar to open. Hot new band-of-the-month The Suspected were playing a gig there tonight, and all the regular patrons, plus more, had turned up. Rosemary jumped up and down on the spot, trying to warm herself up, wishing for a moment that she put some warmer clothes on, but quickly brushing that thought away with a private grin as she saw the looks she attracted from her fellow queuers, enjoying the subtle attention.

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Sandy stopped and considered whether she should proceed with the daring plan that she had pondering. Both Greg and Phil were in the spa. She had been talking to them in the pub after their football game and told them that her parents were out of town. This left her with the house to herself and so she suggested that perhaps they'd like to come back and have a spa to help rejuvenate their tired muscles before watchinga video or something.

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Lisa and I had been awakened by the sound of my alarm clock, which I wanted to fire through the window but had a second thought about it, when she realized it was Saturday and we weren't working. "Joe. Did you set that for any specific reason?'

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"Good luck on the sting Craig, we've all got things we need to do here," said Officer Mike Rutledge. "Thanks, we need to clean these streets up they're getting more decrepit each night," replied Officer Craig Stanford as he left the police station. He parked his car in his usual sentry position where he's been quite successful over the last few weeks busting drug runners and prostitutes.

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I moaned loudly as the phone's ringing refused to stop. I rolled twice toward the sound, tossing blankets to the side as I did, and reached up to grab the phone. "Hmmmm?" I voiced into the receiver. "Ms. Calista Holiday?" a deep voice asked. "Yes," I responded. "This is Aidan Conner. I must regretfully inform you of the death of your great-aunt, Faye Michaels." The man's vaguely familiar accent registered, but his words didn't.

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I had only been out of work for a week, and already I was getting bored. And that's a bad thing for me . . . to be bored. It's how I always get into trouble. Okay, it's one of the ways I get into trouble. So here I am, back home in the mountains of Tennessee, and I need something to do. It's beautiful here, and very secluded.

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I am Frank Stokes, 64 years old, retired from an executive position in a large corporation. My wife of 35 years passed away 3 years ago. I live in Brentwood, a golfing community, in the Atlanta area. There are three 18 hole golf courses. One easy course, one a little more difficult and the third, for experts, more difficult. Lots of sand traps, water and longer. I play the middle course.

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After the events of the previous night, most of the group’s carnal secrets were out in the open. Gina, a woman in her mid-40s who was also Jim’s department chair, was fucking Aaron, an 18-year-old freshman who previously dated her young daughter, Karla. Jim, 31 and wrapping up his doctoral dissertation, had just started fucking Molly, a 19-year-old intern (she was having intercourse for the first time with someone other than her father, but that secret would remain intact a while longer).

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Chapter 1 I'm a pretty relaxed guy, I don't get upset about most things, I can usually go with the flow but I did realize that I did have an obsession that started about five years after we were married. It started when I was looking through some boxes in the attic, trying to find my high school yearbook. I had a reunion coming up in a few months and wanted to refresh myself on the names and faces from my youth.

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