Your erotic stories

Chapter One Katelyn McKinley looked in the mirror and was surprised that the woman looking back at her looked so fresh and pretty. Katelyn was tired most of the time these days, and taking care of herself was often last on her list. Raising her precocious six year old daughter, Carly and three year old twin sons, Colin and Connor, pretty much drained her of most of her energy. But tonight, the woman in the mirror looked attractive and glowing.

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So, 'V' and I are chatting away when she says to me 'why is it that all D/s stories are written from the sub's point of view. Why is it never from the Domme's. Take Summerhouse Blues, I really love that version of the Rhonda character and yet all we hear about is how Tracy feels. What about Rhonda, what did she make of it all?' And that got me thinking. 'V' was right, there's a whole different side to Summerhouse Blues, another story and one that ought to be told.

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Authors Note: These stories are based on my life experiences. If you haven't read the first part of my story, I'd suggest that you do so... The names (or most of them) have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. By the way, in case any of you are wondering after the end of this story, the answer is: "Yes, Cheryl is still a part of my life – even if we aren't roommates anymore."

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NOW, You're Bi! (My First Lesbian Experience) * Whenever I want to be turned on, my thoughts wander back to one particular incident. It was a few years ago now, that I had my first real sexual experience with another woman...

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I’m going to tell you a little story now but first you have to promise me one thing. This has to stay just between us friends ok? I mean I wouldn’t want this spread all over town or anything, know what I mean? Or, God forbid, put out on the Internet or something. So mum’s the word ok? Ok!

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Januaries are always cold in the upper Midwest. This year, though, has been the coldest we've seen in a long time. But, despite high natural gas prices and low temperatures, our house had been comfortably warm throughout the cold spell until the day my husband, Michael, an airline pilot, left for his monthly four day trip to Europe. Suddenly our almost new, high efficiency, just out of warranty gas furnace, Michael's proudest home improvement, stopped - you'll excuse the expression - cold.

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Heather and her mother Rita moved into their new house a week ago. It was not a difficult move and they hadn't moved very far; it was only a few blocks away from their old place. The house was considerably different. It was a large house in a very upper class street. It was in a practical sense too big for the single mother and daughter, but Rita loved big houses and was determined to move into one. Heather didn't mind she was closer to her friend Anita, whom lived only a street away.

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The early morning sun began to shine brightly through our bedroom window- waking me up. I wasn’t much of a morning person until the first morning you and I woke up in each other’s arms. After that, I grew to love mornings. Our mornings were special. It was the one time of the day where we actually got to hold each other close and not be in a big hurry. All the cuddling and whispering as we each wake up. Except this morning, I woke up too late.

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She comes in. There's something about her. About the song in her walk and the smile in her chest. About the aroma of her being. About the puff of her ego. About her nipple. Small, so incredibly tiny, hiding away in the darkness, lurching, waiting, conspiring, plotting. Patient. Living life in the shadows, hidden, on the edge, touching the edge, that small piece of fabric, a prisoner with threads of clothing as jail bars.

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The hour was late and we had been drinking fairly heavily throughout the evening. I had been doing shooters of tequila and the girls had been drinking screwdrivers. We were all getting pretty plastered and we were a bit loose in our conversation. Ellen, our neighbor, had just regaled us with a tale of a sexual escapade she had experienced this last week.

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