Your erotic stories

Regina and I have several classes together at the local college. She has been trying to get me to go different places with her for a long time. I like her well enough, I mean heck, I think I'm actually in love with her. I get this silly mushy feeling every time I get around her. She's about as pretty and sexy as they come. She's a tall girl with long slender legs, a slim waist, and enough boobs to choke an alligator.

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The sun shone brightly in the sky against the backdrop of the mountains and a few birds could be seen flying about. The view could make anyone looking at it breathe a deep sigh of contentment, but not the woman standing in front of her office window. In fact, the sigh that she gave was one of sadness - not the deep heart-wrenching kind she had sighed six months before, but sad just the same.

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I moved into housing on post two months after my husband deployed. He had left Tennessee two months before he deployed. I was forced to wait in Tennessee for a house to become available. I did not want to move; my support circle in Tennessee was incredible.

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For generations, the Royal Family had been protected by the elite Royal Guard, given the best training and the most advanced weapons to date. With a proud heritage which stretched back generations, the Royal Family had always been under the protectorate one family.

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Before you read the following story, there are some things that you should know about me. I am, by nature, quite a well-behaved girl. Although I'm open minded about sex, I wouldn't consider myself to be a risk taker. Normally I only have sex with people I know well and have some respect for. Only on a very few occasions have I done something as dangerous and foolish as I did in this story.

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Sunday Morning in early March. I joined the regulars for coffee after a disappointing Saturday night; I hate to be part of a closing crowd, and so I'd left the Paradise Bar with fifteen minutes to go before the bitter end. It's my age, I suppose. As fine as I know myself to be at thirty-five, I just don't feel like competing at singles bars any more. So there I was, listening to the morning-after banter about the night before: Who did, who didn't, who got lucky, who got away.

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The computer monitor blinked with activity. A finger rolled down the mouse and information scrolled on the screen. Blue and black text intertwined in a maze of records. “Where are you, Doctor Hile?” A soft voice whispered. The question did not require an answer. But, the girl would get her answer. She always got her answer.

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Elizabeth Walker felt the tension drain from her body as she settled into the wrought iron deck chair. She was on the patio at Sven’s, an upscale bistro overlooking the San Francisco Bay. Situated far enough away from Fisherman’s Wharf to escape the brunt of tourist traffic, the dining was upscale but still casual. She wasn’t really dressed for dining out, but she had just finished moving the last of her belongings into her new apartment and wanted to treat herself.

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You might have seen me once or twice if you happen to visit any of the lonelier cycle paths around Great Britain. I've cycled them all. Mile after mile of empty countryside – away from the cars, away from the people, and away from every other distraction of modern day life. Boring? You've got to be kidding! This is where it all happens – in the natural world, that is; and as a passionate wildlife photographer, this is all that matters to me.

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We buried Brennan on a typical July afternoon, hot and restless. Heavy, dark clouds hung overhead and the smell of rain was sharp and sweet. Mr. Kennedy, Patrick and my father dug Brennan's grave beside his father, mother and younger sister, spilling dark soil across the verdant grass. Father Landon stood at the head of the grave and read from his ancient bible.

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