Your erotic stories

Monica Traveler was the chief bitch of her company and she never let anyone forget it. She got off on the fear she generated by walking into the central work area. When that wasn't enough, she would single out someone for personal humiliation and suffering. Monica wouldn't stop at words, no; often some sort of real physical torment was necessary for Monica to get on with her day. Sexual relationships did nothing for her because no man or woman would stay with her through the torments that got her off.

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Richard nudged the door open with his knee, slowly shoving forward trying not to spill the gin and tonics he held. Once he was the other side his ass swung at the door, closing it. "Here look at this for a mouthful," he walked over to where his wife was sat at the computer, putting the two glass's down he lent over her shoulder, "And what mouthful of fuck fantasy are your little perverts telling you now?"

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When the so called natural resources started to run out on Earth some super genius among them came to realize that the moon and the asteroids in the heavens above could provide all humanity could every need. With just under 25 billion people murdering each other for food and a place to sleep, the idea of endless space with unlimited resources, did for earth what it had done for the English colonies on the east coast of the Americas.

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The image of the girl was burned on his mind as he stepped outside the hall. The band was taking its final bow, and fit though he was, his muscles were well-used from the dancing. His friends had gone home early in a taxi, very drunk, but he'd stayed on, caught in the whirl of the ceilidh. The girl had been in a couple of sets he'd danced, and something in her eyes as she'd wheeched by had arrested him. He just wanted her, deep primal need. Knew it wasn't appropriate, she'd been the schoolpal of his friends' daughter.

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Nadia scowled at the computer screen in front of her. As a writer at a sight for erotic stories, she was constantly trying to better herself and to make sure that she wrote stories that people enjoyed. Negative feedback didn't bother her when there was a reason behind it, even if the person didn't put their name down. What did bother her were anonymous comments that were mean, derogatory and often downright cruel... and several of them were obviously written by the same person.

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It's not in my nature to be violent. Really, it's not. Sure, I yell, swear, and slam doors, but to me these are just casual little outlets for minor irritations that go no further. But to actually physically harm someone? That would take a lot. I can count on one hand the number of times I actually feared I'd do someone bodily harm. Only twice did I actually go through with it: one man I had grabbed by the throat until my friends pulled me off, the other I punched twice in the face before his bloody nose told me things went too far.

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I lay bored in my bed, idly tapping my finger on my upper thigh. It was sticky hot outside; the type of hot that causes your clothes to cling to your skin, so I lay sprawled out under my fan, trying to keep cool. Even though I was wearing a velvet red string bikini, I was still flushed with tiny droplets of sweat crawling down between my breasts, and I was bored.

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Gina felt the man's firm hands against her waist, felt his body grind against hers, his breath warm on the nape of her neck. She tossed her long brown hair to the side, exposing the soft skin at the side of her throat, and pushed her ass back into him, rolling her hips to the rhythm of the music. She didn't know who the tall man behind her was, couldn't quite remember how she came to be dancing with him, but it felt good.

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Brandy smiled as she assessed her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door. She had tried on her new work uniform and what there was of it, fit her like a glove. Brandy had just completed her freshman year at college and decided to make a little money over the summer. She had accepted a waitressing job at Hooters and the famous orange satin shorts and white tank top had never looked better.

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Brandy marched across campus with a determination she had never known. She was so focused in fact, that for once she didn't notice all the usual glances, stares and double takes she caused when she walked by. Brandy had an angelic face, with large, bright, brown eyes, her face was framed in shoulder-length, shiny, brown hair, which bobbed and swayed when she moved. This heavenly visage was contrasted, by her body, which looked as if it had been made for sin.

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