Your erotic stories

What to write about? What to write about I mused to myself, my mind momentarily blank. Glancing through the pages and pages of stories in Literotica you could be forgiven for thinking that just about every topic for a story had already been used. I sat back in the chair pondering on possible story themes and as I did I started thinking about my life so far.

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‘Dave won’t be home until four-thirty,’ she thought as she rinsed the soapy lather from her body. She dried and spent some time on her hair, making it look the way I liked, tied up off the shoulder. She applied her make-up and dabbed some Obsession perfume on her pulse points. ‘That should do it. Now, what shall I wear,’ she mused. She opened her wardrobe door and chose a light summer frock that was almost transparent when lit from behind. ‘Yes, perfect’.

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I had just stepped out of the shower when I heard the doorbell. I wrapped the towel around me and dripped to the front door. Guys are much more able to that than girls are. We can drip, and show up at the door in only a towel from the waist down, and no one thinks it's a come-on. If a girl does it, she's just asking for it.

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I had just stepped out of the shower when I heard the doorbell. I wrapped the towel around me and dripped to the front door. Guys are much more able to do that than girls are. We can drip, and show up at the door in only a towel from the waist down, and no one thinks it's a come-on. If a girl does it, she's just asking for it.

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I first heard from Rachel last May. She'd read my account of the threesome in a Bristol hotel I'd had and wanted to tell me how much it turned her on. She wrote: "Hi Deepblue32 -- liked A Story a lot. I was turned on pretty much from the first paragraph and I lost count of the number of times I came. God, when both you and Louise were cumming on Abby I don't think I've ever cum so hard.

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Amy looked at the card in her hand. A dentist's appointment, that wasn't going to be good. It didn't seem to matter how well she brushed her teeth, she always seemed to manage to need to have some sort of work done that required a filling. And that meant a needle. She hated needles of any sort and when they were putting them in her mouth, all she wanted to do was scream, but couldn't.

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Like a swirl of murky water shifting and clearing, Amber slowly drifted out of slumber and opened her eyes to narrow slits, getting used to the morning light as she lay, waking, in bed. Yet something was wrong. First of all, her bed had never felt this hard, and there were no blankets or bed sheets either. As her still muddled mind slowly drifted out of sleep, struggling to understand what was happening, a chill like a tiny spark of electricity shot up her spine and blossomed into warm pleasure as it reached her head.

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It was a normal Saturday in June. I had just returned from the joys of supermarket shopping and was laden down with bags and trying to open my front door when my cell phone rang out. Cursing I managed to free the sticking door lock and simultaneously opened the door put down the shopping and answered my phone.

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François Renard was a stagehand and handyman at the theater of the Ballet De Paris. He was a huge man, almost seven feet tall with wide shoulders and hands large and strong enough to crush a coconut, but he was very gentle giant. Most of those who saw him thought he was slow witted because he seldom spoke. Also he had a foolish smile which came out any time Monsieur Tibault the theater manager scolded him, or if one of the dancers from the corps de ballet made fun of him.

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It had been a week since my friend Emily and I had experienced one of the most exciting nights of our lives, a night when we visited a local swinger's club. The week finally passed but it felt more like a month because all I could think about, every minute of each day was going back. Emily had told me that night, when I dropped her off at her apartment that I was to call her the following weekend so we could go back for more.

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