Your erotic stories

Misty lie in bed, her hand between her long legs with two of her fingers deep in her steaming pussy. She moved them in and out as fast as she could go. Her other hand toyed with her firm breasts and nipples. She needed to cum so bad every inch of her body was on fire. She had only been with one man in her young life and he didn't know the first thing about pleasing a girl. "Please, cum!" she moaned as her hand began to tire. She'd been fingering herself for close to an hour with no sign on an orgasm.

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I woke Sunday morning, tired, and with burning eyes. I wasn't hungover from my graduation party the previous night, but my eyes were betraying me as if I had been. I rubbed them a bit and tried to open them again but still felt as if someone had rubbed in fiberglass. I laid back in the bed and thought about the previous night. I was upset that the my best female friend and current best friend had hooked up at the end of the night and that she had not chosen me.

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Chapter One "Evan, Mr. Franklin would like to see you if you're available." "I'm on my way, Francine." Evan hung up the phone, grabbed his notebook and ran up the back stairs to Francine's door. As he caught his breath he made sure his shirt was tucked in and his tie was straight and brushing his hair back with his left hand opened the door and went in.

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It all started when my very dear friend Murthy had a stroke. But, let me start at the very beginning. I am Sekhar, a sixty year old successful professional consultant. Murthy, twelve years my senior and a long retired professor has been my dear friend of over forty years. I and my wife Sumana (58) live in our own comfortable three bed room apartment in a posh area of our city, our only daughter, married, lives in U.S.A along with her husband and son. Murthy is a widower having lost his dear wife about seven years ago.

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I had been with the company for three years and thinking about leaving until I was transferred to a mid-size Rocky Mountain town. For me it was a dream come true; out of the city, fresh mountain air, and plenty of open road to ride my bike. Being 28 I had been into road bicycles since college and I was a weekend racer. In my new environment and with my new job, that had me out of the office most of the time, I could ride virtually whenever I wanted.

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Jan's thoughts drifted as she reined her horse to the right at the intersection. She did not know where this road led, but exploring her new "neighborhood" was on the goals of her long Saturday evening rides. She had just been transferred to this small West Texas town from Boston, and she had resigned herself to make the most of it. She had enjoyed riding in her early teen years, and since she now found herself living in a part of the country where everyone seemed to own at least one horse.

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Mary was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am about to relate. Mary had been my wife for over twenty years, mother of our kids, confidant, no doubt the best thing that had ever happened to me. She was not, I hasten to add, perfect, nor was I, by any means, and we had the usual ups and fortunately few downs. However, one morning, Mary just didn't wake up.

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"Do you work for the city?" the cute, blonde 30-something woman asked me with a tinge of irritation. As much as I didn't want to admit it, I did. I had two degrees in Mechanical and Electrical Engineering, including a teaching credential in Secondary Education. I was actually the head of Pottsburgh's Park Maintenance. I nodded my head and picking up my wrench stood up from the ground where I had been trying to fix the sprinkler head in Park's park.

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Laura walked back to her house. Still smiling. Still warm. Still electrified. She never would have imagined kissing her friend good bye after the lunch date they just had. Not even to mention kissing her that way... Gail has licked Laura's lips. That was nothing like kissing her husband. It was nothing like she had ever felt. She decided that she would indeed have a terrific rest of the day off. When she went into the house, she set the security system. She certainly didn't want her husband walking in on her. As she passed the kitchen, she picked up matches and then continued up stairs.

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I've always loved Paris art cinemas. These old, worn-out theatres, showing forgotten films in bad state, smelling of rotten fabric and dust, nowhere in the world is quite like them. There is something special about Parisian art-house cinemas; the very bohemian meets the very snotty, the richness of the film and the beauty on the screen conflicting with the nastiness of the space and people.

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