Your erotic stories

John Dorland pressed his foot down on the break, slowing the car down as he approached his usual stakeout spot and eased his navy blue unmarked police cruiser off the interstate and into a wide truck turnout, backing the rear of the Dodge Charger up under the cover of the maple trees that lined the turnout fifty yards from the edge of the asphalt. He turned off the headlights, leaving the engine idling, and flipped on the dash mounted radar, settling back into his seat for the remainder of his ten hour shift.

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I am a burglar by trade. It's not a bad job. You pick your hours, working as little or as much as you like. No boss to tell you what to do and, as long as your careful, no hassles. Mind you, I have more sense than to put down burglar on my tax returns. I'm a registered second-hand dealer and I do a lot of buying and selling over the internet. As long as I pay my taxes no-one bothers me.

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When Aleta graduated from university with a degree in journalism, she went to work for an upscale woman's magazine. She worked as a copy editor and wrote some of the articles. After eleven years she had risen to assistant editor of the magazine and was making a six-figure income. Then the bubble burst; the economy began to tank, and eventually the magazine failed. Aleta found herself without a job and without any severance pay.

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I am twenty-nine years old and have been married for eight years. After eight years of marriage, life has become incredibly stagnant. Wendy spends most of her time at her sister's house. She thinks if she is home while I am here I will spend all my time trying to fuck her, she's probably right. If she is not at her sister's house then she is working part time at the University helping foreign students with their visa applications and finding host families for foreign exchange students.

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About a month ago I had become frustrated by the lack of money for even the simplest promotions at the radio station I work for. At first I thought it was simply a matter of the station owner being a cheap bastard, but after a little digging around I learned otherwise. I discovered that the lack of money was real, not just an excuse from a penny-pinching owner. But when I learned the cause of our money problems I didn’t get angry, I got excited.

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A shapely chestnut-haired girl frolicked through a meadow with careless ease, her long red hood trailing behind her as she carried a basket full of pastries on her way to her isolated grandmother's house. Unbeknownst to her, exploring the deepest, most wooded areas of the forest, there was also a young man. A young man who suddenly came upon a path, which he followed to the very same meadow filled with tiny purple flowers.

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"Damn it!" I yelled aloud, as the shifter linkage rattled uselessly, and the engine rpm's climbed to dangerous levels. Gritting my teeth and double-clutching, I slammed the shifter forward again, this time going into third gear. Yes! The Honda had jumped into the lead, however, and it was going to take every last bit of big-block horsepower to get it back.

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- 1 - My husband Dan is an engineer—and, I strongly suspect, a sex addict. Until recently, these were separate parts of his life. Not that I'm complaining, too much, about Dan's strong libido. He's always been faithful. And he's also a willing student—and budding master—of my body. I may want sex less frequently than he, but I probably get more enjoyment from it than I deserve for my own efforts. Besides, Dan's curiosity and drive definitely keeps things interesting in our bedroom—and sometimes outside of it too!

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Jill walked into the darken picture theatre, feeling lonely and a bit lost. She'd just had a fight with her boyfriend and was feeling pissed off. Once again, they'd made love, and once again, he'd left her high and dry. When they'd first met, he had been a wonderful lover, always making sure that she'd had an orgasm.

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I'm so done with this school, with these ridiculous uniforms and my jackass classmates trying to look up my skirt and down my shirt. (Who picked these clothes? I mean the skirt is halfway up the thighs for god's sake. And these shirts must have been designed for girls who, well, didn't develop as early and as, uh, fully as me - which, trust me, is not all it's cracked up to be, big tits are huge pain even in clothes that weren't poorly designed for someone a lot _smaller_.

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