Your erotic stories

Evelyn lay in bed that Saturday morning recalling her humiliating meeting with Derek and Chelsea, standing on the sidewalk covered only in an open cape. When Derek and Chelsea strolled around the corner she knew that her secret life would soon be shared with all her friends. Her Master for the evening had no problem showing them all of Evelyn's shameful secrets, her pierced nipples and ears, her pierced and chained open labia and the "Slut Slave" tattoos on her inner thighs.

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Bethany hated Valentines day with a passion. As a child, plain and unpopular, she had resented this awful holiday which seemed to involve immature boys chasing girls with chocolates, cards and posies... every girl but her, anyway. She had grown up, and in college the guys had begun to notice her occasionally, but even then she hated Valentine's day - she saw it as a pathetic excuse for losers to try to use corny one-liners on the assumption that "the season" would make her respond. Fat chance.

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Chapter One "Damn him. He wasn't supposed to be the first one to go. He promised me. He's really screwed it up, he has." Sadie, jarred by the tone of Jan's voice, sat up on her haunches and nosed her head into her new mistress's hand. Without even realizing she'd done it, Jan stroked Sadie's head and behind an ear. Reassured, Sadie gave an "I wasn't really worried" yawn and settled back on the ground beside the folding chair Jan was sitting on.

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The sex between Devin and me, which began on our third date (a month ago now), has been world-incinerating in its hotness. In addition, call it the effect of the honeymoon phase if you want, but I love the guy with every shred of my soul-his gentle gray eyes, his teeth slightly crooked on the upper right, his large but graceful hands, his messy dark hair, his subtle sense of humor, his passion for the same art and music I like, his trace of an Irish accent. (He and his parents moved to the U.S. nine years ago, when he was twelve.)

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It's been a long time coming. I finally was able to write my next story. This story is courtesy of my two best sexual friends, DC and RU. Thanks for everything. Feedback ALWAYS welcome. + The shower is a big one, with lots of jets and spray everywhere. Plenty of steam, too. I lean him up against the wall, legs and arms spread out, like I'm ready to frisk him. He's facing the wall, showing me his magnificent backside.

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You Sure Got A Pretty Mouth! I don’t know what pervert said it to my sister but I wish I could find him so I could shake his hand and thank him. I was home from college when my stepsister, Jenny, came home from high school in a huff. We were not really tight as her mom and my dad had only been married four years and I had been gone 2 of them at college. But she looked at me as a confidant and older brother. She felt she could come to me when she had problems and needed help.

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About the same time Jack Kirby was walking past the room she was occupying, Susie Barnes woke from unconsciousness. As she groggily came to, the first thing she realized was that her entire body was tingling, and in particular, her pussy. In fact, her pussy wasn't just tingling, it was throbbing and it hurt like a son of a bitch. Then as her other senses became attuned, more focused, she realized that a lot more was wrong.

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Broken down on a deserted street late at night was not a situation which Danni pictured being in before leaving the club. Her situation wouldn't have been so bad, except her cell phone is dead and she was dressed rather provocatively, having just come from the nightclub. She'd gone to dance and drink and have a good time and to her dismay she was on her way home- alone- when her car broke down. Danni knew she had to get to a phone, but there were nothing but strip malls and industrial buildings and the only phones to be seen were outside sleazy looking liquor stores, surrounded by crowds of dark looking men...

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"So, tell me Sandy," Linda said, leaning across the coffee table and winking at her pal from the marketing department. "—And I want exact figures here—when was your last orgasm, and how much foreplay did Ken give you the last time you made love." Sandy burst into a quick fit of laughter. It was so typical of her sales associate pal to toss this kind of thing at her right as she took a sip of coffee.

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If time could be recognized, then we would have no need for clocks or calendars. These things are metres set against a background of haze and dream. The truth of time is that we live it. We breathe in moments and release seconds to the atmosphere where they bound and prance, teasing us before disappearing completely. They taunt us with their ephemerity.

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