Your erotic stories

It was evening and he was sitting at the kitchen table, barefooted, in jeans and a t-shirt, reading the paper. I was off puttering around, doing I don't remember what, while Don was absorbed in the news. Suddenly, I had a strong urge to do one of those things that really turns me on once in a while. I went to our room and put on my short bathrobe. Then I went to the kitchen and stood next to Don until he looked up at me curiously. "Honey," I said, "I'm in the mood to get a really good spanking."

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The week had been pure hell. Work was driving me up a wall, and I was beginning to fear that I would soon lose it. I had enough stress to supply the eastern seaboard for life. Anyway, it was Friday night, and I wanted to put the week behind me. I picked up dinner on the way home, and fought my way through the evening traffic.

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I always thought that Jessica had a beautiful body, although I tried my best to pretend not to notice. I was 24 then, and she was 21. We'd met at church 5 years earlier, and had been best friends from the beginning. Jess was one of those "comfortable with her body" people, which made it difficult for me to pretend I wasn't attracted to her on some level.

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I didn't know if it was the unseasonal heat or the heavy work we'd done that day or Jake's scary stories or Miguel's empty bed that kept me awake in the dormitory that night, but I had nervous energy to spare. I would doze, but I'd wake up with a start and look over at Miguel's bed, the emptiness of it now explained, and then I'd check all of the other beds to see in guys were there. And sometimes they weren't, and then I'd speculate.

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“Gentleman, you have never, ever seen a magic trick like this. Porn meets illusion.” Fuck David Blaine. And the over-hyped, under-achieving shit that he peddles as magic. Sure, the street magic stuff is okay, but there’s no fucking magic in standing on a pole. Or in a freakin’ box. For Christ’s sake.

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Ellen Brophy was grateful for the ringing of the telephone, because it jarred her out of her melancholy reverie. She’d been thinking about Jack again, and how much she missed him, and that was never good. She picked up the phone and answered dully, “Hello.” “Mom?” It was Ellen’s daughter, Robin. “Mom, are you OK? You don’t sound so good.” “I’m awright,” Ellen said, although she knew she wasn’t. “Mom, you’ve been thinking about Daddy again, haven’t you,” Robin said in a tone that was half accusatory and half sympathetic.

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Sitting there at the computer Cassie waits. She knows her time alone is dwindling. Smiling to herself she types out her story. Letting the words take her over. Letting her mind drift off and meet her imagination. She laughs softly and shifts restlessly in her chair. Her fingers flying as the story pours out of her. Her body picks up the urgency of her fingers and words.

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Ian was on a roll. With the second draft of lyrics well under way and the melody writing itself, he knew he'd finally gotten it. He'd finally written a love song to rival all love songs. Honest, pure, impossible to ignore: exactly what he was going for. Becca had to listen to this. She'd have no choice but to love him and allow herself to be loved in return. He's just started mapping chord progressions when someone knocked on his door.

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I had been married for 10 years but was newly divorced and on the dating scene again. I was raring to get out there, flaunt my stuff and have fun for once in my adult life. Since I was a bit older than most of my competition at the bars and clubs I hung out at, I had to work a little harder than the 20-somethings to make myself look "hot." I worked out five times a week, watched what I ate and I didn't smoke or drink more than a few glasses of wine with dinner.

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The music in the club pounded in his ears. The lights were low, and the lasers lit up the fog atmosphere. Cage dancers gyrated in their steel boxes high above his head as he walked through the crowd. Even though this was typically his scene, Paul was anxious- he wasn’t accustomed to being alone in a group of people…waiting. This wasn’t his city, wasn’t his language.

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