Your erotic stories

Allow me to introduce myself: I'm Heather McCormick and I'm a thirty-something m.i.l.f. living in suburban Atlanta, Georgia. The story I'm about to tell you is the God's honest truth, and I wouldn't lie, because lying is a sin. Six months ago I was a slovenly 158 pounds of bored, impetuous, spoiled housewife. Now I am a svelte 115 pounds thanks to the Wulfwinter Weight Loss Clinic. Here's my story.

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After the incident, I endeavored to analyze the events that led up to it, concluding that I'd made four mistakes. The first was reporting a leaky water heater to building maintenance, the second forgetting the day and time, they said they would come, and my third calling in to work and reporting sick just so I could take a day off. I lay in bed until nine, playing with myself and generally feeling horny. Having masturbated to an unsatisfying climax the night before I made my fourth and last mistake.

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I have fallen asleep in my bed, waiting for you to come over and play. Suddenly, a noise wakes me, and I realize that the light I left on in the bedroom is now out. My eyes can't make anything out in the gloom, when suddenly a shape moves toward the bed. I call your name, but there's no answer. Frightened now, I fumble for the bedside lamp, but I suddenly find a wrist manacle strapped to it, while I am pressed back onto the bed by the weight of the mysterious stranger.

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I've written this story at the request of a fan. It is purely fiction. I want to give a prologue that quickly explains my attitude to the issues it raises. Certain things happen in this story that I would not want to happen in real life. In real life I believe in equality and consent. I have moral values. However, my mind is a safe playground for any fantasy I choose. If fantasies remain fantasies and do not become obsessions, they are safe. They are also exciting. Enough of that, you're here for my story.

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"This is a very dangerous place, my dear. I suggest you consider my offer of assistance once more." Amanda stared at the foreigner that she thought she knew so well. Their current conversation, however, showed a side of him she wasn't familiar with. "Did you not have to pay a certain price to become a correspondent for your news organization?" the man continued. "Perhaps you used your exceptional beauty to help climb the ladder of success you Americans are so obsessed with.

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Chapter I It’s one of those beautiful days that only occur in California. It’s fall and San Francisco is particularly beautiful. I’ve only just arrived in this city from the Midwest. I came for, of all reasons, I met a married woman on the Internet. She’s young, early 30/s, blonde, attractive (36C-26-34) and really likes old black men. Funny how I wound up here, an old white guy, also married, traveling 2000 miles for this meeting. I must be crazy…but then again this one may well be worth it.

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Gawd how I hate him! His name is Daniel and he is such a jerk. Everybody else thinks so too, not just me. For some reason they all just put up with it. Well not me, I can't stand that prick! "What is he doing here?" I spit turning to Kayla. "Calm down, Jane," she says soothingly. "There's plenty of other people here...you don't even have to talk to him."

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It was bad enough being in an arranged marriage with a minor lord – that's how things were done among the nobility, and both of your father's had gained advantage from the union. But to make things worse, your husband ended up being an effete fop, more interested in cavorting with his like-minded "friends" at all hours than in some woman he was forced into joining. His sole concession to your vows had been on the night of your wedding, just to make things official.

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I smiled at my skinny shrimp of a cousin as she practiced on her trampoline. At 15, she still looked like an 11-year-old, with her blonde hair tied in a ragged ponytail and her innocent white T-shirt and cut-off shorts outfit. Her mom, my father's sister Tanya, had just gotten a divorce the year before. Tracie, her only child, had taken it hard but was throwing herself, literally, into her gymnastics. She'd always been a natural, with her skinny body and graceful moves. "Nice backflip!" I called out as she somersaulted up, landing on her feet.

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Last summer, I spent a lot of time talking with the neighbor girl across the street. She is about 28, married, maybe 120 pounds, around 5' 10" tall, long blond hair, fantastic body for a married lady. nice husband, and three small children. A wonderful family, to the casual observer. But as we became closer, she confided in me that there was something missing in her marriage, something she couldn't understand.

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