Your erotic stories

"329, 331, 333..." I muttered to myself, reading the numbers off the doors as I made my way down the narrow hotel hallway. I could almost hear the sound of my own nervous heartbeat over the quiet buzzing of a nearby ice machine as I pushed my hand into my pocket to pull out a folded, crumpled piece of paper. Cursing myself for the inability to calm my shaking nerves, I unfolded the small parchment and read the number scrawled upon it.

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(Item: Lyle Alan Buhr, convicted sex offender escaped today from the Barton County Jail in Nevada, Missouri. Buhr, who is a white male, 26 years old, 5" 11" , 190 lbs has been convicted in the 2001 rape and sodomy of a Monette couple during a home invasion. He is considered dangerous and anyone having information regarding his whereabouts is asked to contact the Barton County Sheriff.)

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Chapter One: New York City to Albany. The Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York City, circa 1971, was a very cold and sinister place to hang around, and I made it a point to spend as little time as possible there while waiting for my bus. I was 18 years old and alone, and while I had grown familiar enough with the city to navigate to and from my Aunt Elle's home in Queens, once I entered that dank and dismal bus terminal, I kept to myself as much as possible, and held onto my gym bag very tightly.

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Like I said, I was sitting at this slot machine, more or less blindly pushing the buttons and listening to it go "Clank clank clank." I like that one machine, it is 3 bucks a push of the button, it has the 5 times pay things and if I manage to get two of them it's 25 times pay which is a pretty good chunk of change if it ever pays off. The last reel respins, too, that is fun but the first two reels have to be lined up first.

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From deep in the bowels of Hell, the Prince of Darkness releases his hordes of foul, evil and dysfunctional minions bred for the sole purpose of showing up to roommate interviews. And I, Theodore, the legal head of household, must sit here through each horrifying, grueling one on one session with these abominations and remain cordial, collected and most of all, patient. They range from militant bull dykes to future residents of Death Row, closet Pyromaniacs, far-too-energetic athlete types, big, drunk bullies and I even had a bookworm shut-in who was possibly a mild agoraphobic.

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The Orient Express train had left Vienna Station at dusk, and there was no longer anything to see out of the coach window, the lights of the towns flashing by having been extinguished hours ago. Magnus the Authenticator was weary, and the clacking of the iron wheels on the iron rails as the train thundered toward Belgrade lulled him. But the unfamiliar noise of the speeding train and frequent lurch from side to side robbed him of sleep. He'd never ridden a train before;

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It had been a long day. The kind that dragged forever with traffic moving slower than usual, an uncommon streak of red lights, construction at a busy intersection, a thousand small irritations that stretched the day. I was so glad when my small car finally pulled its way into the driveway. Free of the constraints and the prolonged time of sitting cramped behind the steering wheel, I luxuriously stretch my long legs and stride to the front door and step in.

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It had been a boring day and with my boyfriend spending the night out with some friends and not home to spice up the night, I decided to have a few drinks alone and go to bed. However, slightly tipsy and feeling naughty, I flipped open Brandon's laptop and started snooping around for some porn. I quickly found a small library of porno movies and chose one that looked promising. The scene opened with a woman on all fours talking dirty and getting her pussy licked from behind by a muscular guy.

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You know what it's like when you lust after someone, really lust? Why is it that you lust after those you can't have? I suppose it's the same thing with those girls that follow boy bands around hoping they can bed the lead singer and knowing full well they never will.

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Karen glanced at the clock, frowned, and realized she had probably missed the director of accounting by fifteen minutes. It was 6:45 in the evening, she was hungry and stressed, and this folder of papers was promised to be on his desk before he left the building. She picked up her phone and dialed the extension of his assistant. Three rings ... four ... voicemail. No one there. She pushed the handset hard into the plastic cradle in frustration, slid her feet back into her high-heeled shoes beneath the broad oak desk and pushed up from her tall, black leather seat.

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