Your erotic stories

I love banking. I love it. The adrenalin. The buzz. The intellectual demands. And - the money. Wait a moment - why did I use the present tense? I should have said, "I loved banking." I loved it until the discrimination suit which went in my favour, but which also meant I was out.

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"Redhead by the bar," I nudged Michael. He raised his eyes, found her, then winced. "Too sexy for me?" He nodded, "Too sexy for you," then slowly sipped his soda. "I thought so." She looked again in my direction. I froze, caught staring for the umpteenth time. The first time I noticed her was earlier that night. I was sweeping the pub with my eyes when they landed straight on hers. She smiled, nodded discreetly, and turned away, leaving me confused and embarrassed, as if I had been the one snooping.

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The big Jag pulled into an empty parking place at the top of the cliff. The Irish sea roiled under storm clouds beyond the guard rail. A woman emerged from the powerful car and walked hesitantly to the rail, tall and graceful in high heels. She was old now, nearing her fifty-first birthday, but still striking, body lush and curvy, the legs still well toned in their black stockings. Her white silk blouse did little to hide a bust that had been called the highest peaks in county Mayo when she was young.

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I rolled over to look out of the window, frowning at the sound of chirping birds, and then glanced over at the clock. I shouldn't complain, right? After all, everyone had been bitching and moaning about the dark, cold, snowy winter months. Chirping birds meant spring...and ultimately summer. So what if it was 8:30 in the morning? The birds weren't governed by human clocks...fucking birds.

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From the darkness of sweet oblivion she awakened to gnawing pain. It took her some time to realize she was lying on the floor in the living room. She tried to sit up, but a lancing pain her side nearly caused her to scream. When she did manage to sit up she had to hold her arm tightly to her side, there was no doubt in her mind that ribs were broken. Her left eye was swollen shut and she could taste the unmistakable metallic taste of blood in her mouth.

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She was sitting in a booth, facing the front door. I walked up to her and smiled. She was still beautiful, maybe even more so. Her hair was not as long as she wore it when she was a young woman; now it was just above her shoulders in a very chic, professional cut.

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The morning mist covered the grass and flowers; it was a beautiful May morning in Georgia. Birds were chirping and a slight breeze rustled the leaves in the trees that lined the long driveway that led to a spacious mansion. It was difficult for Nora to believe that she was only sixty miles out side of Atlanta;

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"-Do you trust me?" Moira asked. The sun was setting over the southern Ireland countryside, sending long, soft shadows from to tree to hedgerow and slowly turning the sky red. They sat on Moira's couch in her quiet cottage. She had her arm around the younger woman's shoulders. Sinead's school books lay scattered on the coffee table.

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Everyone in this story is over eighteen. It seeks to explore lesbian masochism, which I know exists. * It was my husband's fault. Really. Mike was a horny bastard, and something of a voyeur. And that was how he lost me – simple as that. We used to go to a lot of parties, with other young married couples, many of us fancying each other's partners like mad. Nothing unusual in that, I suppose.

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It was several months after my wedding that my growing but still largely unconscious suspicions finally emerged into a realization: I had a rival for my husband's affections. It was surprising, given how grateful he had seemed—after all, Eric had won a bride almost half his age—but I knew that he was possessed of a powerful sex drive and a taste for novelty and adventure.

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