Your erotic stories

A little before eight PM, the phone rang. I picked it up and said, "Hello." On the other end of the line, a breathy female voice asked, "Can I speak to Rad, please?" Rad is my internet name and a pen name I use when I write erotica. Very few people know that name and the few who do, know my real name. "Uh, this is Randy, can I help you?" There was a short silence and then a throaty laugh. "If you are the one that wrote the wonderful sexy stories I found, then you can do almost anything to me or with me that you like."

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This year Jean and I celebrated our thirty-sixth wedding anniversary. I pause occasionally to glance at my wife, when she first crawls out of bed in the mornings with her white curls all tangled and snarled, or when she lays a loving hand on one of our grandchildren, and there is not one thing I would alter about her or our life together. Our hands unconsciously intertwine, even now, when we walk through a shopping mall or when we stroll along a deserted beach.

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He was restless, tired and content as he watched her through her bedroom window; his place in the tree gave him the perfect view. She had gone to bed about twenty minutes ago, he stood in the tree waiting. Forcing his eyes away as she changed in her near dark room, he wasn't a pervert or like the rest of them.

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I still can't remember when this twisted little project first took hold. I think it might have been early last spring. I run an Internet-based business out of a home office in a pleasant old neighborhood downtown. I moved in a year ago and business is good. I have lots of free time and can pretty much plan my schedule any way I want.

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Her name was Allegra. She was a dancer and the most beautiful nineteen year old you could ever imagine. Sleek as a cat, her rich, strawberry blonde hair piled up in a bun revealing her long, graceful neck, she smiled the most radiant of smiles, her big green eyes sparkling with curiosity and excitement. And that face! Perfection! Her body, befitting a dancer's, was slender and lithe but firm and agile, petite and feminine, more girlish than womanly.

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Smiling down at you, so happy you trust me as I tie your left hand down at the corner of the big table where you spend so many hours creating your art. "Done," I say, now that you are at my mercy, I lick my lips in anticipation for what I have in mind for you.

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Warning: This work of fiction contains scenes of women having sex together, without men. If this offends you, do not read it! People who complain to the authors here about the content of their stories are, IMNSHO, just like people who move next to the airport and then complain about the noise... Constructive criticism is always welcome, but closed-minded rants have no place here.

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When you're a Villain, there are certain things you sign up for. The risk of arrest, the risk of getting shot by police, the risk of getting hunted and severely beaten up by heroes. The risk of what happens when your secret identity is uncovered. The risk of other Villains hunting you for their own ends. Oh yes, don't believe that only Heroines get hunted, trapped and put through slave training by Villains. Villains get it worse.

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This was just a temporary gig, but they'd stuffed Karl into a dark green coverall with the Army logo plastered on the sleeve. It wasn't really that much different than his flightsuit but the colour and texture was all wrong and it just didn't feel right wearing some grease-monkey's gear instead of his own. There was nothing he could do about it, though—Army was big on uniforms.

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i wonder, Sir... What if we had the opportunity to meet somewhat regularly and each session went beautifully for both of us? What if i waited for you in a lovely hotel room one summer evening? What if i put on the little blue plaid mini-skirt and white blouse, white stockings, and little lace bra and panties you'd left for me, and put my hair up in a nice ponytail, as you'd requested?

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