Your erotic stories

Skylar McGill was an attractive girl. She was just 19 years old, around 5 foot 5 and just the right balance between slim and curvy, with tanned skin, grey-green eyes and dark brown hair to her shoulders, she was nothing special but certainly not ugly. However, that morning, after crying all night, she definitely did not look her best. Looking in the mirror, she sighed, wondering when it would be over. Her friend Magdalena was playing mind games with her again.

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Yvette struggled playfully at the bonds that held her. She lay naked in her back yard. Her arms and legs spread apart bound to metal stakes buried in the ground. She had been left this way by her husband, Jim, as part of their game. Yvette loved bondage a rape-fantasy and Jim loved being dominant, so the two made a good couple in the bedroom. One of their little games was to have Yvette bound and exposed outside.

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She'd ruined her chance to get away. She knew it in an instant. She'd hesitated too long, stumbled when she started to run and he'd caught her arm. Now she was pinned between his hard body and the brick wall, the scent of garbage rising from the cans beside her, turning her stomach as much as the brutal fear did. "Please don't hurt me," she whimpered, breathless, terrified. "Take my wallet, my car..."

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She was a pale and kinky bisexual BBW, close to two hundred and fifty pounds, probably five foot ten, with long red hair that she wore in a braid when she shot pool. Her name was Opal and she drove around in a pale blue Mercedes. She shot in two leagues and even managed her own team, an all-Lady crew in which she was the best player and in which two of the other seven members were also BBWS.

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Our physical difference was striking. I'm a brute—at least I look like one. Over six feet, with broad shoulders and thick legs, I dwarfed her barely five foot frame. Where I loom, all burliness and beard and full, round ass, she receded, her thin arms and legs topped by a spindly bottom and slightly sunken cheeks that were the most obvious sign of her fifty-nine years.

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Lena hummed tunelessly to herself as she put away her groceries. Her voluptuously curvy figure, kept in check by four sessions of yoga a week and strict adherence to a healthy diet, was cased in snug denim and a soft knit sweater. Lena tried to keep her kitchen stocked with only healthy foods—whole grains, fruits and veggies, Clif bars. She knew that if she let herself snack on processed food, her toned waist would gradually expand and soften, and she refused to let that happen.

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Paterson trained the gun firmly on her as she did as she was told. She tied her husband's wrists behind his back, then bound his ankles together, then knotted the two ropes together, leaving him virtually immobile on the bed in his striped pyjamas. Paterson had a minor twinge of conscience - after all, he must be nearer seventy than sixty, and lame, to boot - but, he had been a soldier all his life and, even in the British Army, you don't make brigadier just by going to the right school or joining the right clubs.

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Everyone who knows Ellie, knows that she is a really nice girl. Born and raised in a small Midwestern town by strict and very religious parents, Ellie was the perfect daughter. She was a shy, polite, and religious girl who caused absolutely no problems for her parents. Ellie went to a small private high school and then to a small fundamentalist college where she met her future husband, Tim.

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She was so drunk. She thought the girls that brought her along were her friends, but they weren't. If they were, they'd have never let me drag her away from the fire. I was a gatecrasher. I hadn't expected to be at any party, I didn't really know too many people in this city apart from my house-mates. I work at a local drive-through liquor store. Late one night a bunch of immature, loud-mouthed lads came through and told us about a beach party they were going to.

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From the outside, the place was even worse than Rose had expected. The entrance to the long dirt driveway was hidden by pines and kudzu, and she drove right by it on the first pass. Once she was finally on it, her wheels spun, kicking up gravel and wet red mud from the recent rain. Good thing her Tercel had already seen its better day.

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