Your erotic stories

Sam Stafford is a grouchy old man who lives up the road from us. Well when I say old, he's probably in his early thirties, but from the arrogant young age of eighteen, thirty is old. Especially the way he acts at times. He does, I will admit, have a green thumb, and his garden has the best roses for miles around. Come spring he had an amazing display. That's partly what led to the trouble.

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The bell rings. I look through our bedroom window. Isabelle, a small and beautiful woman, my wife Anne's best friend, is standing in the rain. I run downstairs and open the front door. "Come in, come in," and I make an invitational gesture, not realizing that I'm still holding a knife in my hand. "My God," Isabelle gasps, "what's that big knife for? Cutting meat or something?"

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Myra was as cheerful as usual when she arrived at the offices of Hartley's Discount Stores. There she did the part time office cleaning job that was making it possible for her pay her way through college. The offices were closed now and she would be on her own, but she was used to that, especially because it allowed her to do her job in her own way without anyone leaning over her shoulder, and that's the way she liked it.

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"Do you understand this situation?" She stared intently at the ground, unable to speak. "I asked you a question." She bit her lip and remained silent. His hand darted out to grab her chin, forcing her to look into his cold eyes. "Y-yes."

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"Are we nearly there yet? This doesn't look anywhere classy." Clarissa tried to keep the petulance out of her voice. She knew she should be flattered by the stretch-limo and the Dom Perignon, glass number three of which was fizzing its way down her throat, but why the hell were they driving about dingy back-streets?

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Mark's the sort of man you can't help but want to tie down and gag. He's clean shaven, nicely dressed and well mannered with slight build and quick eyes—ah, but that Mr. Brady routine is just a front. The man is actually a tightly wound ball of futile energy and repressed urges. I think he only shaves his head to keep from tearing his hair out in frustration. After a while, his manic approach to life in general makes you want to push him down, sit on his legs and scream, "BE STILL!"

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The two girls were excited about their plan. Their mother had been so bitchy since Allen had come to visit that they decided it was time she got some of her own medicine. They had lured her out to the barn under the pretext that they wanted her approval for a little surprise that they were planning for their thoroughly pussy-whipped cousin.

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My name is Kay. I'm a 31 year-old, happily un-married middle-class white woman with a marvelous life - except for being addicted to sex. Maybe it's only the risk factor that I'm addicted to. I honestly don't know, but I do know I'll sometimes take awful risks to anonymously and spontaneously fuck total strangers. There, now that I have that part out of the way maybe I can also be honest with the rest of what I want to explain.

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Eight months of hell, that's what it's been! I don't know now why I ever accepted that job offer through the university when I graduated, other than the fact that I was a referral from the Dean's Office, an extremely rare gesture from Brender University. To give you a little background, and why I ended up in this mess, let me explain.

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Susan glanced at her watch and hurried out to her white Ford Explorer, her heels clicking on the asphalt of the parking lot. She had arranged an early day from work and wanted to get home to her husband. David had the day off and she hoped to use the time to coax him into some long overdue love making.

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