Your erotic stories

I roll over lazily, aroused by my dreams after collapsing into bed completely horny but equally tired the night before. I set my eyes on you, still sleeping but just beginning to stir. My heart starts to beat a little faster at the thought of feeling your bare skin, smooth and tan. As I caress your beautifully defined shoulders they boast of the diligence you give your morning swims.

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To bow. To worship. To breed. These are the notes of his symphony, his soul's hunger. 

His eyes dart from body to body, evaluating, finding nothing of either sustenance or substance. 

In his emptiness, I sense his desperation for my religion. He seeks a fane with an altar of leather and chains. Here is not that temple. 

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I am wearing no knickers and a blue miniskirt that displays my slender, tanned legs. I sit on the motorbike and feel the vibration of the engine run through me. The photographer tells me to hold still while she takes the pictures. It's hard not to wriggle. She runs off a few shots and stops. I puff out my cheeks and lean back to take the pressure off. My nipples are hard and straining at my tight, white t-shirt.

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This an absolutely true story, although the names have been altered, and obviously I cannot vouch for the actual words used in the conversations – but the gist of them is more or less true, and certainly the events are as I remember them to this day. Apart, that is, from the scene in the restaurant with Zena where I exaggerated her mode of dress, but not too much. She really did buy a new mini-dress for the occasion.

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Pamela had already made the picnic and packed it into a wicker basket when the boys arrived. She'd cleaned the kitchen as well, been a thorough little domestic goddess with her mom and dad away for the week. And finally she had changed from jogging pants and T-shirt into her costume. Nothing outlandish, just a simple white-muslin dress and sandals, and then to the garden to pluck daisies and buttercups and ring them into a crown and a necklace.

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It's not easy being the parent of a teenager these days, especially of a teenage girl. They all want to dress like tramps and every time they go out to a party you're worried they they're going to get drunk or high, or worse. I like to think of myself as an involved father and I make sure to keep up on the trends kids are into these days. I remember being horrified when I read about "rainbow" parties and when those multicolored gasket bracelets were in the news I checked my daughter's wrists every time she came from her mother's.

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I'm a 55-year old executive working in a medium-sized corporation. One of the perks of being in top management is that I have a parking space in the lower level of our building. It's heated, private, and except for the other four executives in the company who have access, no one ever goes into the parking garage, with the exception of the cleaning crew that comes in around 6:00 in the evening...just about the time I usually leave for the day.

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The credits on my video just started rolling when my wife came home from a party. The front door opened in a natural swing, but the volume of her movements let me know that she had been drinking. I imagined that she had a couple of glasses of wine, so I immediately wondered who drove her home. No sooner had the thought crossed my mind when I heard an engine make way from the house.

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Christine Hawkins was twenty-two and a student of accounting at the local college in Crompton, Surrey, England. She was popular with the main student body there. She was active in most of the college activities and was a natural leader. She had no boyfriend. She was lesbian. She was proud of that fact and was active in gay rights. This brought her into conflict with the local vicar, Reverend Tom Greenwood, an old- fashioned cleric, who, in Christine's eyes, was anti everything Christine stood for, especially gay and lesbian rights.

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I got dressed as provocatively and with the sluttiest make-up that I could manage without looking like a transsexual, slipped on my heels and tottered my way to the interview. They had been so secretive, and I amused myself by twiddling with my cellphone and imagining things they would give me to do.

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