Your erotic stories

"I'm worried about my boys, Marge," Gina Smith confessed to her best friend after church one day. "Why?" Marge replied. "You're a great mother, and your boys seem happy and they do ok in school, right?" "I know... maybe I'm over thinking, but I feel like they need more of a male influence in their lives. Clancy never was around that much right after the divorce, and he rarely calls now than he and Kimmy have moved to California," Gina said, practically spitting out the name of her ex-husband's new, younger wife.

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DING DING DONG. "Oh damn," Lauren sits up in bed, pushing her hair out of her eyes, suddenly remembering the air conditioning man is supposed to arrive at 8:00 o'clock. She stayed up late, chatting online with some college classmates while watching an old movie and forgot to set her alarm. Grabbing her red silk robe from the foot of the bed, she pulls it over her dad's old undershirt and little boy boxer shorts.

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It was Sunday, a full day off from work. That meant I had the whole day to devote to my other job, the one I should have concentrated on years ago. I planned to do some serious work on my thesis. On the wrong side of my thirty-fifth birthday, I, Joseph Middleton, was a college boy. I was an average student in high school. My grades weren't good enough to get into a decent college, which didn't matter to me at the time. I just didn't care about much except hanging out with my friends and trying to get laid.

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Drew put-in before Dooley Bridge, his goal being to photograph the length of the river through town, marking its changes as it went from rural to urban to estuarine environments in the space of four miles. Being June and approaching the summer solstice in this northern state, the sky began to lighten before five in the morning. Drew had been up since four, having loaded his kayak onto his Subaru the previous evening. His main goal was to be up before the tourists and their jet skis, and he had provided himself a wide buffer.

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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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