Your erotic stories

As the train slowed down and drew into York station Mark smiled at his wife Serena and asked how she felt. 'Nervous, and as horny as hell,' she replied. The train slowed to a halt and Mark and Serena got off and made their way off the platform where they were due to meet Robert, Mrs Wyles' assistant. They held hands as they approached the ticket barrier and walked through it.

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I turned a whole different shade of red as I pulled my card out of my wallet. Seventy-three dollars never felt so embarrassing and I was more than thankful that the clerk was a young, beautiful woman. Maybe she would understand; then again, maybe not and her judgment was withheld behind her professional smile.

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This story is absolutely true and is dedicated to a very special girl. Love ya, Sweetpea! * After my ex-wife left me I did whatever I could to make myself feel better about the situation. This included getting a tattoo and fucking a couple of her friends, but those memories are for another time. This is the story of the wildest thing I did, and it involved someone I never expected to have anything to do with sexually.

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It had been a long time since I had last seen Alicia. What was it, fifteen years? No. Sixteen. Good Gawd A'mighty! Actually, she looked better than I remembered. Of course, that last time I saw her she was recovering from breast-reduction surgery and wasn't in her best sorts. We were also married to other people then, and it wasn't the best time for me either.

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In eighteenth century English society it was even more difficult for a girl to advance above her station than it was for a young man. Without the proper connections and lineage it was almost impossible for even the most attractive of young girls to marry a man who could give her a life of comfort. Seeing no other way around this dilemma, some parents took the grave risk of sending their daughters to India, where the men who survived the climate and the competition were seeking wives as gorgeous as the silks and gems they carried home as spoils. One of these girls was named Fanny Chamberlain.

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I'd gone to the kitchen in Jay's apartment to get myself a sparkling water from the fridge—we couldn't drink what we'd really like to drink during the performance season—when his doorbell rang, and he let his landlord in. I just stayed out of sight in the kitchen, because I knew this was going to be unpleasant and I didn't want the landlord, who I'd heard was a real ass, to get the idea that I'd moved in with Jay after Dalton died. Which I hadn't, and I didn't think there was any chance Jay would let me.

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Five years ago my wife Sue and I left behind the dark, dank climate and the economic and political doom and gloom of England in search of a new life in the beautiful, peaceful and sunny Languedoc region of the South of France. Both of us are keenly interested in good food, cooking, and enjoying the odd glass or three of wine.

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I had a good job. I was the editor and part owner of a weekly newspaper in Waverly, Kansas. It was a town of about 1000 souls, settled after the Civil War by a group of pioneers from Ohio. In fact the main event of the year was a large gathering in a clearing on the edge of town and it was called Old Ohio Days. I had a good house, a modest three bedroom bungalow within walking distance of my job. I had two good children who had long-since grown up and moved away.

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If there was ever a reason to go to the salon to get my hair done every two weeks other than to enhance my beauty, it was to admire Beauty. Look at her, she is fine as hell! What I wouldn't do to get my hands on her locs, and I don't mean to twist them. Well actually, I would love to twist them and pull them and grab them and oh my bad, got lost in my thoughts.

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The bustling casino hummed with the sounds of success and Lou, the general manager, grinned as he walked past row after row of slot machines. People sat in nearly every chair and Lou, of all people, understood that despite the occasional cheers of a winner, every patron was contributing to his ever-growing empire. The game tilted in his favor, of course. Over the life of a slot machine, ten percent of every dollar put into it would go to Lou.

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