Your erotic stories

Prologue The Right Hon Mrs Grace de Vere Cobblehaugh sighed deeply. Mrs Cobblehaugh (pronounced "cobbler") was not happy. Yet why should this be? The heiress to the vast de Vere estate had every right to be content with her lot. After all, she was a beautiful, intelligent woman with a handsome, dashing husband. It was a glorious summer day in 1895, and the lawn outside her holiday cottage stretched down to a pretty little river.

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Mom was laying back in the pillows, leaning back on her elbows. I stood and gazed at her sexy loveliness; prefect body, sexy and nude, my mother. Lying there in the soft glow of the candlelight she looked like a classic Playboy centerfold, come to life; perfect. "So," she finally smiled seductively at me, "Is my handsome, studly son ready to actually fuck his own mother's juicy, wet pussy?" she grinned wickedly, her eyes dropping to my hard cock, bouncing with eager anticipation.

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Miranda walked from the restroom hallway back into the noisy, smoke filled dance club. As she turned the corner she glanced to her left and came to a sudden stop, eyes wide. The table in the corner, where all the rich girls from the college had been sitting was now nearly empty.

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The door opens...she is overwhelmed. It is perfect, right down to the roses on the circular table. The door closes and the fantasy begins. "Close your eyes," he whispers. A pop of a champagne cork, the soft splash of liquid being poured into glasses. A cool flute of champagne is pressed into her hand. He is behind her, arms encircling, lips on her neck. The mood is sensuous, exciting; the moment like an assignation.

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Standing in line at the meat counter of the little family owned market, I couldn't keep my eyes off the attractive young woman waiting ahead of me. She was wearing Capri pants that perfectly displayed her fine young form. Over the years I had met far more interesting women in food markets, fabric stores and garden centers than in bars. "Have you shopped here before?" Not terribly original, but it was a start.

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I told the young man we were to meet in a motel room. We both love meeting that way. There is something particularly sexy and forbidden to me about motels. I've always admitted a peculiar fetish for them. The fact that it’s neutral territory. No real life interruptions or distractions. The knowledge that untold numbers of other people have had sex in this same room.

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* Chapter 1 * Jenna and I had been seeing one another for a few months and I couldn't be happier. She is bright and thoughtful and she has a genuine concern for the well being of others. She wants to help make this world to a better place, and is studying to be a counselor for those who have fallen on hard times. She has a pretty face with bright blue eyes, long blond-brownish hair, wears glasses, and is around five-feet-four inches tall, a few inches shorter that I. She's a bright, normal woman. A very special bright, normal woman.

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I met Gwen at the restaurant, where I went for breakfast every morning, before work, after my wife, Linda, left me for a younger man. Just as I had no idea she had a lover, I didn't know my wife was unhappy enough to leave me. I mean, now that I think about it, she was pretty miserable, but what wife isn't? With everything, including sex so routine and predictable, the romance fizzles, after being married for a while. Still, totally clueless, I thought everything was the routine same, until it wasn't and until she was no longer there to cook breakfast.

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It was Gill's 40th birthday and we had arranged a big party on the Friday night at a local social club. Family, friends and work colleagues had all been invited and a disco booked. Because we were likely to be dancing and drinking late into the night, I had arranged with my parents that our two kids would go home with them at about 10pm and then stay the night at their house.

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It was one of those days where you just wanted to go out and get yourself laid. My name is Gus Roberts, 32 years old, and it's been in a while since I've had a steady relationship. I'm kinda on the stocky side, a little under 6 feet tall, and short brown hair. I was wearing a classy black shirt and matching slacks, flashing some cash, buying women drinks and trying to get some at a local singles bar.

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