Your erotic stories

My name is Bridget Smith and I'm from Chicago. I just turned twenty-nine a few months ago. I've been married to Jack for eleven years. Yes, we got married young. We have two children, ages eight and ten. After our second child was born I joined a health club to get my out of shape body back in shape. Now if I can say so myself, I'm back in pretty good shape. I'm 5'9", 128 pounds and my measurements are 36C-25-36.

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There's a financial newspaper on my desk and it says that Georgie Kalvos is dead. I'm half wishing he's doing a stint in hell and half hoping he's got plenty of good looking women down there to keep him company - yes, and an occasional bottle of ouzo to slake his thirst too. It's been many years since I last saw him and if I'm going to remember him I'll remember him as he was. A middle aged man with the smile of a boy, the build of a gorilla, the manners of a courtier and the morals of a shark.

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Stella poured me another shot of Jameson and gave me a look that said, "Don't you think you've had enough?" I downed the shot and gave her one back that said, "Mind your own fucking business and pour." My throat was raw from whiskey and my eyes were red from the smoke of burning bodies. No matter how much I drank, I couldn't seem to stop my hands from shaking. I tapped the bar next to my empty glass and Stella dutifully poured another. Something in my face told her not to argue. She leaned on the bar, giving me a long look at her heavy breasts and deep cleavage.

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Goldie couldn't believe it. There she was, scuffing down a back road on South Goddamn Georgia with her disabled car half a mile back. It was getting dark, it was colder than the South had any right to be, her cell phone was broken, and there wasn't a soul in sight. Damn him anyway, him and all the shit he'd put her through over the past five years.

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I've been sitting on this one for a little while. I've been meaning to touch it up. Maybe if people like it I will. All participants are over 18 and fictitious. ...My name is Camille. I don't usually feel guilty for what I do. I don't now. It doesn't worry me, but it should. I feel the need to confess in some small way... ...My name is Audrey. I can't stand it any longer. I can't face my minister.

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Julieanne slowly pushed her shopping cart down the isle, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor. She was excited about the prospects of the evening to come. Charles had promised to take her to theater, something they had not done in a long time. He had also arranged for the kids to be out of the house, at a friends place, so they would be alone.

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