Your erotic stories

Patrice Mueller couldn't suppress a resigned sigh as she looked around the living room. It wasn't that it was dirty; it was that it looked fine. The whole house looked fine: a tastefully appointed exemplar of a white bread middle class dwelling. It was tidy, warm and cozy without a hint of ostentation.

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My girlfriend and me are a couple of kinky freaks who like to go what we call "slutting". That's when we find ourselves a foxy young babe or two, usually but not always dykes like us, bring them home, and then get real down and dirty until the wee, wee hours of the morning. One night last week we had picked up this delicious looking young lesbian model at a dyke bar we frequent, a gorgeous African-American knockout with silky mocha-hued skin.

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Well, the woman in the mirror certainly looks too young to be attending the wedding of her son this weekend and truthfully, thirty-seven really is far too young to have a twenty year old. Come to think of it, twenty was far too young to be getting married. But then, you were married younger.

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Lori dreamed about Amber again that night. In her dream, she didn't feel afraid at all. Amber was sitting on the edge of the dock in the warm afternoon sunlight, looking like she could inspire an entire Renaissance all by herself, and Lori walked up and sat down next to her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

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I suppose I couldn't really claim to be the innocent party that night, because subconsciously I knew exactly what I was doing even if I just let things happen. I was on my way home after being away on business and I'd pulled into one of those late night places that serve lukewarm coffee and burgers that seem to be made of a cross between carpet and cardboard.

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As a dancer I am always amazed at the number of young drop dead sorority type girls that come in to see another girl dance. I dance out of state at an all nude club unbeknown to my family. Recently a young couple came in. The girl was about five feet six with short black hair and bright blue eyes.

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For me, coming to terms with what I am was like being born. It was something that happened when I was naked, wet and crying. I'm not really sure what it was that got me to realizing it. A long string of dates with 'the hot guy' that always left me feeling... well, feeling something. What I'm not sure. It was in the less than warm afterglow of yet another of those encounters that I was dragged kicking and screaming to the new spa that opened up nearby.

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Misty strode confidently into the student center at her university that spring afternoon. She had just gotten out of her least favorite class, and had in her hands the test from last week. The surprising "97%" was written on the top in a red pen. Now she could just check her mail, and sit down and read for a few hours until dinnertime with her friends.

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My face is blank. My eyes stare calmly ahead, but my mind is racing. I'm sitting in the waiting room of my gynaecologists office, trying to think of anything but my discomfort and excitement. The seats are hard with a squishy cushion - the kind that makes noise every time you shift your weight. I'm frozen. I wore a short jean skirt today, something that is strangely uncommon for me, but I completely forgot I had this appointment.

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It was one of those hot summer days in New York State, and after a long cold winter this was a day that I described as a "Three H" day; Hazy, Hot, and it made me oh so Horny. You could say I am a fairly domesticated suburban type guy; I have a lovely wife, Liz, two kids, a decent house, and a 9 to 5 job. I would say I live a fairly safe life by most people's standards but hey, I like it that way.

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