Your erotic stories

I named him Frank, as in Frankfurter, because he was a schnauzer, and as kids, we called them frankfurter dogs. It had been 2 weeks since I found him huddled out by the trash cans, shaking in the cold night air. I brought him into the garage, which was a lot warmer than the 15 degrees it was supposed to reach, held him in a towel to stop his shivers. I had a few cans left over from when my brother stopped by with his dog, Mangy, and Frank went at it greedily.

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I've done something appalling, something that I have tried to stop doing but can't. No matter how severely I berate myself with a vow never to repeat my actions in moments of remorse, I can't resist such an overwhelming power. It's not lust; lust is such a puny word when I compare it to the wash of sheer, irresistible craving that I feel.

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The snow storm was getting worse. It was about ten miles to the next town and I began to wonder if I would make it. The Ford F250 I am driving is four wheel drive, but even the big truck was having a hard time staying on the road. The snow storm was almost blizzard like and there were short periods of white out. These conditions made visibility minimal at best. I literally couldn't see much more than thirty feet in front of the truck. I had slowed to five mph trying to stay on the road.

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"Come on, Jennifer, give me some," was the standard plea from my husband Duke. Not that I minded making love with him, heck, we'd been together 8 years and had made love countless times in a variety of places. But this was Tiffany's wedding day and we were late for the ceremony. I was dressed in my perfect outfit, with perfect hair and perfect make up. I looked good.

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I could have sworn she was about my age. I'm 21 now, making me a dedicated observer of girl's asses and legs for the last eight years or so. I can detect the slightly-too-slender look of a hot little piece of jailbait, or the subtle signs of impending cellulite that brand most older women. So as I walked along the beach perhaps 30 feet behind the bikini-clad brunette, I never would have guessed she was old enough to be my mom.

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At what point does a preference become a fetish? I met Stella at a party. She had arrived with the critic Darian Fellini. Back then, Fellini was one of the art world's big stars. His book -- All the Naked Women -- had just come out, and everyone was talking about it. Was it art criticism? Or was it pornography? As a 19-year-old art student, I didn't really know. And I didn't really care.

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She found the DVD by accident. She hadn't been snooping; she'd been searching for her mother's blue sweater, but her rummaging through the drawers of her parents' bedroom led to an exciting discovery. Francesca held the plastic case, transfixed by the printed images on the cover. She experienced a tremor of some deep, terrible, taboo in the pit of her stomach, as though a nerve had been touched. She knew about porn of course, although previously it held no interest for her, but the discovery of a secret stash stirred feelings within her and the spark of lust ignited with hot vehemence between her legs.

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My son is in the 2nd grade and his school was having their teacher/parent conferences. For those who might not know it is where parents are invited to spend twenty to thirty minutes talking with their son or daughter's teacher about their progress during the year. Now my boy is a good student and we hadn't received any complaints from the school so our conference was a formality at best. Knowing this my wife didn't reschedule her yoga class and opted to miss it.

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Somewhat early on a Saturday morning I was having a cup of coffee on my patio when I noticed a large cat looking at me. It was between two of my flowerpots towards the back but my pots are placed in such a way I could see each plant well from my chair. I could see the cat well. The cat could tell I could see it. It was a semi-longhaired charcoal grey cat that was a bit overweight. By the time I took my first sip of coffee it had relaxed.

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It was my fault, I'm sure. I was preoccupied and I was piloting the shopping cart very poorly so it's no surprise I bumped into somebody. I clipped her cart with a bit of a jolt which brought me out of my distraction in a hurry. "Sorry! Sorry, that was my fault." She gave me a smile, a sweet, forgiving thing that was a tiny ray of sunshine in my personally overcast day.

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