Your erotic stories

Denise lived next door to my family as I grew up in a small city in Australia. She was married to a guy who never grew up, drank a lot and treated her poorly. Their home was littered with his empty beer bottles and her empty dreams. My Dad would often say she was a pretty woman who deserved a whole lot better in life. Denise was originally a country girl and in Australia that meant there was a certain something about her.

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It was about 3 o'clock on a Thursday afternoon, and everybody was winding down at work. Another long day inside a gray glass and steel skyscraper. My boss stopped by and looked at the paltry pile in my inbox and suggested I take the rest of the day off. Big deal, two extra hours. I had to wait for the train after 5 anyway. Two hours to kill. What to do? I wandered out into the street, slipped into a bookstore for a few minutes and then walked towards the train station. Then I remembered the massage parlor.

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Something Monica loved to do a few times a week, when she could, was to go canoeing on the lake adjacent to campus. That was one reason she decided to go to college here, because the campus was located on a large lake, a lake big enough to canoe on for hours on end. She usually canoed alone. She enjoyed the serenity of being by herself out in the middle of the big, tranquil lake, gliding along silently across the smooth waters.

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It was a night for reunions. I hadn't seen Stacy in ten years. Running into her at the grocery store had been such a pleasant shock, that I couldn't stop thinking about her the entire time I was getting ready to go out. I had already told my husband, Sam, all about her. In my stories of our times together, I had described her as the closest person to my fantasy woman I had ever met. She still was.

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"Slow tonight, huh?" The "mixologist" glanced up at me through her blonde bangs as she poured my drink. They weren't allowed to be called bartenders... something to do with not having a liquor license, not wanting to attract the attention of the authorities to a club like this.

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I was Acting Head Copy Chief in a big ad agency. Acting, because I was not a full time employee, but a freelancer, as they call self-employed contractors in the ad business. Things were booming and the agency was stretched. With the typical lack of loyalty and 'sell yourself to the highest bidder' attitude of that crazy business, job jumping was rife and good employees were on a merry-go-round of moving from agency to agency. Hence the agency's need for an 'Acting Head Copy Chief.'

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"I think he's signaling to you, sugar." I'd stopped to talk to the two guys who regularly positioned themselves at the corner of 4th Street Northwest in Albuquerque and the alley in which I temporarily resided in a cardboard carton. I hadn't been there long following a relocation from Las Vegas and, although I'd found some work as a gofer on a high-rise construction project downtown, I didn't have near enough funds yet to rent a room—or even to have three squares a day.

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This is my first story. I have plenty more experiences to relate if you want more!! I can't really remember quite how I got interested in women's panties, but for as long as I can remember, I have always taken the opportunity to have a sly look through various dirty laundry baskets and hope amongst hope that somewhere inside would be my treasure trove - a sexy, slinky pair of panties with the unmistakeable aroma and tell tale signs that they had been worn pretty recently.

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When Randall came home, Cassie was waiting to take his coat. Dressed in her school uniform, as usual; the skirt so short that you could see the bottom most curve of her ass and her white cotton shirt over a white cotton tank, tucked into her green plaid skirt. Lotus was crossing the floor, with a scotch in her hands. As she moved the ice tinkled against the glass, that was nothing compared to the slight sway of her breasts, he thought as he loosened his tie with a smile.

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My alarm. I slapped the thing, sent it flying. Later, I'd be amazed the thing still worked. I hate alarm clocks. I sat up on the side of my bed and adjusted my nightie. One of my nipples was peeking out. Five years ago, I'd have played with it, teased it for its indiscretion. Hell, five years ago, I probably wouldn't have worn the nightie. And I still would have played with it.

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