Your erotic stories

"You get a line, and I'll get a pole, and we'll go fishing in the crawdad hole..." The chorus of young voices finally faded out as Nicole, her two sisters, and their seven kids made it back to camp from their fishing spot on the lake. Despite the still early hour, the heat was already oppressive. Fortunately, there was an easy cure for that.

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Life is full of strange twist and turns. Like the twist that brought me back to my hometown to live with my older sister, Cheryl. I never thought a circumstance would arise where I would find myself invading her privacy. But, she had just gotten divorced and was having trouble making ends meet and I had been laid off from my job as the company moved my job out of the country.

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They had inherited their hair, eyes, body and figure from their mother. Only their face showed a glimpse of the father leaving no doubt as to their parentage. They not only looked alike but they wore their hair in the same style and donned identical clothes. Their voice and mannerism were also alike.

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Terry Smith had been friends with Sandy Garner since they were six years old. They were similar in every way, enjoyed the same sports and hobbies and told each other nearly everything. The one thing Terry held back was the biggest secret of all, one that Sarah could never know. When she turned 18, she started a relationship with a man. An older man. Sandy's father.

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It was 1849 Martha Petersen was just turned 18. She was the only child of Swedish immigrants who were slain by Indians on the trek west. Martha had been raised by the Cooper family, a childless couple on the wagon train that Martha's family had joined for the journey to a new life. Martha was a beautiful natural blonde girl, with blue eyes and stood at 5ft 2in.

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The hum from the washing machines was a chorus of white noise drowning out the street sounds, the wail of sirens in the distance, the crazy-looking homeless man shouting profanities two doors up the sidewalk and the god-awful street rapper free-styling just outside the door of the 50 Cent Washeteria.

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I was lying on my bed staring at the ceiling and feeling sorry for myself for the third night in a row. The girl troubles of an eighteen year old guy still in highschool were not that critical in the grand scheme of things; I fully understood that yet somehow the thought did little to cheer me up. I rolled over onto my side and tried once again to think of something else, anything else, just to take my mind of her for a little while.

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We had seen each other many times, always going to and from work; but we had never spoken. Usually passing each other in the lobby, and sometimes riding in the same elevator to the top of the hi-rise; it's a huge building and with people stopping on every floor the rides take forever some days. I also knew that you had seen me watching you – admiring the way you walked, the outfits you wore, any glimpse I could get. From the smiles and looks you occasionally gave me, I even thought you enjoyed teasing me some.

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I lay on the bed, naked, spread, bound at three corners. Only my right arm is free, holding in a numb hand my vibrator, waiting. Finally you come to me, and sitting down, your weight dips the bed, creating a well of gravity that I can feel, pulling my helpless body towards you.

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For Amy Lynn Steele, it was hard not to reflect upon her current economic situation as she stood in the long line that filled every available representative of the Bureau of Unemployment Compensation. If she had not desperately needed the money, she would have vacated the building a long time ago, but the truth was, she needed the money, even if the weekly pay-out was far less than the amount she got as a Personal Assistant.

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