Your erotic stories

This story was written at the request of, and for a fan. She knows who she is, and I hope the pleasure she gets from the story does not fade too quickly. You sit at your computer, searching for and finding exquisite pictures of exquisite women, your senses already heightened at the sight of them, your attention completely on the screen, your mind and thoughts filled with visions of that special dream lover, the one that can take you to those places you crave, those sensations for which you yearn.

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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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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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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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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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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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I first met Saskia at an art class. I was posing nude and she was one of the students. When I got the chance to see her painting I let out a gasp. Unlike the others it was clearly me, but me as she interpreted me. My hair, quite blonde in real life was jet black in her painting, but she had captured the way it was styled so beautifully. My skin tone was a lot paler too, much more like hers and my lips were bright red, also like hers.

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It has been a while since I have had any type of ongoing sexual relationship. I divorced my husband a few years ago. In order to make ends meet, work takes up a big part of my life now, that and concentrating on my son. He is about to start college, so I think I am getting that empty nest syndrome. The one you hear so much about and say, "No, not me. A quiet house will be wonderful."

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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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Feeling very nervous as she stood backstage with the others, Diana Watson had so many butterflies in her stomach by then that she was deathly afraid that she might throw up ay any moment. Uncomfortably squeezed into her very best dress - one that she had not worn for many years, since before a sedentary life added more than a few extra pounds to her once slender figure - Diana had to work hard to resist the impulse to run a restive hand through the hair she'd had professionally coiffed at the beauty parlor earlier that day.

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