Your erotic stories

I had a philosophy for life --- "keep it on cruise control." Why put out a lot of effort when things come easy? That lasted until the end of the first semester of my junior year of high school, when I brought home my first ever report card with a C. I'm not bragging … school came easy for me, at least up to that point and it wasn't until a couple of years later that I really had a rude awakening. Still I had to explain that C to my parents and of course my explanation was that the teacher didn't really teach anything.

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I hardly recognised him when I saw him. I had been idly sitting on a bench along the river path about halfway through my daily walk when a guy came strolling along dressed in a business suit, which is unusual along the path where casual clothing is the norm. It is customary for people to greet each other, even strangers, along the river path so I glanced up and said, “Hi.”

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I believe I left you as I was slipping into a hot bath, all bubbly. There were some surprises that I couldn't have seen coming this Christmas. To say that I was about to be taught a few lessons in the art of lovemaking and the power of a man, well, read on. The bath was perfect, it felt so soothing. I opened my eyes and saw the vapor floating up from the tub into the cooler aire. The water had an orange, spicy scent to it and it was soft against my skin.

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The rain continued to beat against the roof and the windows on the west side of the cabin. Paul sighed and rolled over. He didn't know what time it was, but it was still dark outside, so he figured it must still be early. He was muzzy from sleep, but awake enough to wonder what had disturbed him enough to waken him. Usually he slept right up until the alarm went off.

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"So, Jack," asked Gillian, our HR Director. "What do you plan to do about Justin and Marge?" "What are my options?" I asked, as I thumbed through the open file spread out on my desk before me. "Disciplinary action, suspension, termination," she recited. "I guess it all depends on how far you want to take it. Termination could prompt legal action on their parts." "Yeah," I said, taking a deep breath. "But I don't like any of those. It seems too severe just because they got caught fooling around in the storeroom."

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Since Dave was “in between jobs” thanks to the slow economy, he spent many of his days doing errands. He didn’t particularly like fighting the moms and kids everywhere he went but it did give him a reason to get out of the house. And it kept him from spending too much money on leisure activities like golfing with none coming in right now. So the trip to the car wash with the SUV was item number one on today’s to-do list and the trip outside was welcome.

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Joni Mitchell came out with an album named 'The Hissing of Summer Lawns' back in the middle seventies. I was wondering if it was available anymore, some are, some aren't. What even brought it to mind was my pulling off the thoroughfare and into my subdivision. Seemed like she summed it up pretty good, I reflected, as I drove past sprinklers gently arching their artificial rain onto picture perfect lawns. A landscaper was getting out weedeaters for a group of little brown men two doors down. They stood there patiently in the white hot mid day heat.

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Ramsay closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and unzipped her jacket. Her mother would have never let her leave the apartment had she seen how her daughter was dressed. The snug, low-cut camisole didn't quite conceal her lacy black bra; the hem of her plaid skirt fell several inches above her knees. Her black patent stilettos were decidedly of the "fuck me" variety. Ramsay peered down at her ample cleavage, watched it rise and fall as she struggled to catch her breath.

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She lay, elbow on the bed, head propped on her hand looking down at him. It was impossible, and yet it had happened. Here was the living proof lying beside her and the sperm she could feel in her vagina and the bed redolent of their coupling. He was asleep now and she reached out and touched his light brown hair as if to reassure herself that he really was there. Then she touched his penis, still warm, wet and sticky with their mingled fluids.

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I saw him across the room being greeted by the host. I felt the blood drain from my face. I thought for a moment I was going to faint. I was attending the exhibition of a third rate painter's work, for which, as a freelance journalist, I was to write a review for a minor local paper. I had got sick of the sugary pink and white creations, and was standing around with a cocktail called, I believe, "A Landmine." It tasted of dishwater and kerosene.

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