Your erotic stories

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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Married, and deeply in love with my husband, but strongly curious about sex with another woman. That's where my head was just about everyday, especially after meeting Claire. Claire and I had met and became good friends online about 3 months ago. I had always been curious but never thought I would actually enter into a sexual relationship with another female until meeting Claire face to face over lunch for the first time. She was a strikingly beautiful woman with a smile that reflected in her eyes.

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Within a few minutes, Anna wished she had followed her first impulse and grabbed her coat instead of her jacket. The night was more raw than cold, but the brisk walk was doing little to compensate for the chilled humidity. She glanced over her shoulder at the sidewalk that looked even darker now than when they had turned down this street a few blocks earlier. Taking a deep breath, she looked ahead and jogged a few steps to catch up with the other freshmen.

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My wife, Natasha, is Russian, and originally came here as a work exchange student. We fell in love her first summer here. She was a virgin, and I was her first. We kept in touch when she returned to her university, and she came back the next summer. We lived together that summer, and got married at the end of it! Our sex life was awesome from the start. But we are both very sensual people, and a dispute arose.

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It was the stupidest thing I've done in my entire life; let's be honest, I knew that at the time but I still did it, silly cow! It was just before Christmas, and I'd gone with a few of my fellow teachers to the pub to celebrate the end of term – my first in my new profession. I'm Cathy Hull by the way, 23, pretty in a girl-next-door sort of way with a pale face, regular features, shoulder length brown hair (mousey, if I'm, being honest), and quite petite, five-foot-four with a slim figure. I'm from just outside London, and the school I teach at is about fifty miles north of my home town.

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Linda fell asleep dreaming about her roommate Mary. They had been roommates for almost a year now and it seemed that in the last six months Linda could sleep not anymore without dreaming about her. Linda had posted an ad for a roommate shortly after her and her girlfriend broke up. Living in San Francisco was expensive and people usually could not make it living on their own.

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