Your erotic stories

I had my eye on her from the moment she moved into the apartment building down from mine. She had turned around and her bubble butt stuck out as she leaned over in her car to retrieve a box from her SUV. From my window, I figured out her schedule and the people who visited her. I rumbled through the trash she had dropped off at the dumpster and found a lot of interesting information, like her full name was Anne Walsh, where she worked, and how much she got paid.

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Over two months had passed since Jake Barlow escaped from the prison in Tennessee. The first two or three weeks had been rough. First, on foot, he'd headed for Gainesville, Georgia, because that's where a buddy of his had been living the last he'd known. When he got there, however, he learned that his friend was long gone.

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"I'm not sure what you want me to do?" The Man questioned after the woman had laid out her story to him. Mr. R had already heard it sometime before but stayed in the room for the retelling. "The man has already struck. There is nothing to be salvaged here." "I want revenge," Valerie Coombs responded intently. The Man knew of her vaguely; she'd been a fashion model and spokeswomen for a variety of products when she was younger, but that had been years ago.

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The bus ride started out innocently enough, but then most major events do. If anyone really knew what was going to happen to them at the end of the day—or night for that matter—would they board the bus, or would they stay home? Would you drink that last glass of wine and stumble out into the rain with only a knee-length vinyl rain slicker to cover your nudity, or would you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain on the roof? I'd probably do it all over again.

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A flashy sports convertible pulled into a driveway next to a much more subtle, unmarked black van. A predictably middled aged man, climbed out and waved at the occupant of the standard suburban home, who was sprawled comfortably on the steps leading up to the front porch, a beer nestled in one hand. "Scotty…" said the other man from his perch.

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Before I get to the meat of this story, let me first tell you how this evening came to be! My wife of fourteen years, decided she wanted to get into something new and more exciting in our sex life, or should I say, lack there of? Oh, we still had sex more than most married couples of fourteen years, but it was more mechanical, and predictable as hell. I guess looking at the same bodies for all that time makes one tend to lose something in the excitement department!

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It's amazing how sharp your senses get when death is in the vicinity. Christine Reynolds could hear clearly the sounds of far-off coyotes and the whistle of a train from many miles away. She could smell the smoke from the pistol she still held in her hand, and the blood of the man lying on the ground in front of her. The echo of the gunshots still reverberated in her ears as she stared numbly at his dead body. A light desert breeze caressed her naked body as she stood in the moonlit darkness trying to make sense of what had just happened.

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Chloe hated having to ride the trains to and from work. Her car was smashed into by some arsehole, while it was parked out the front of her friends place two weekends ago. So until she could save up some money for the repairs, trains and buses were her only option. She was reading a good book to pass the time, but it couldn't block out her horrible surroundings. The trains were always the fucking same. Dirty and vandalised, with seedy looking passengers, some asleep on the seats.

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She awoke to the slam of a door. Someone had walked into the room. She felt the bed shift beside her and she pulled against her restraints, licking her lips in anticipation. She felt his mouth hot on hers, his tongue forcing into her mouth and plundering the soft crevices. She fought against the restraints, trying to push against him, trying to push her tongue into his mouth, trying to hold his head close to her as she was consumed by his deepening kiss.

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PART 1 John Mason was twenty-seven when his father died fucking his young twenty year old secretary on a supposed business conference in Dundee, Scotland. In truth, the fifty- four year old was regularly fucking whenever he could. Since he owned fifty-five per cent of the company, he could afford to do what he liked. This time however, it cost him his life. John's mother had died when he was young.

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