Your erotic stories

Little Devil Chastity was dressed like a cheap whore. Short, black semi-sheer mini-skirt. Braless, she wore a too tight and too small, neon pink tube top that barely contained her boobs. Cheap costume jewelry and knee high faux leather black boots. Poofy blonde hair, overdone make-up and strong perfume. And underneath, lace, red crotchless panties. It made her feel like a slut. It made her feel liberated. It made her feel excited.

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It was Saturday night. Frank and I went to our favorite local bar to hang out and try to meet women. He was usually successful more than I was, though I certainly got my fair share of 'action' as well. The place was packed as usual, with all the tables along the wall taken, and people standing elbow to elbow at the bar. We managed to squeeze ourselves near the bar and ordered a couple of beers.

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It was as I was returning from a trip up to Manchester that I saw the sign: 'Stewartby Park Prestige Hotel'. I vaguely remembered hearing that the old place had been converted, some years after she died, but it hadn't really hit home to me until that moment. Before I'd even realised it I'd swung the car between the gate posts and started up that familiar wide, sweeping gravel drive, framed by rhododendron bushes. After a few hundred yards I rounded a corner and saw again the huge, sprawling former stately home I'd last set eyes on more than 30 years earlier, its crooked Tudor chimneys silhouetted against the afternoon sky.

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Valerie was already there when I arrived. I was early and was surprised to see her sat at the corner table. I had hoped that I would have a little time to calm my nerves before Valerie showed up, but it wasn't to be obviously. I took a deep breath, fixed a confident smile on my face and walked in.

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It had been six months since Katie left to go back to South America. Six long months without anyone to play with – six months of frustration with only my own fingers to satisfy my sensitive nipples. – And now, back in my apartment, dressed in only a white cotton top and g-string, I rubbed my aching buds back and forth through the material, releasing my pent up and frustrated feelings.

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My husband and I had never done any swinging before but had talked about it many times. It was just kind of a fantasy thing that we shared. Then through a friend of ours, we were invited to what was billed as a swing party although it turned out to be more like an orgy. The party started out mildly enough. Val, our host had only invited couples. We kept to ourselves at the beginning and found ourselves in a darkened room.

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Heavy rain hammered loudly on the roof of our porch. Strong winds whipped through the mesh screening, blowing the heat of the summer day quickly away. The wind pushed raindrops through the screen, vaporizing the droplets into a fine, refreshing mist. The random lighting strikes that brilliantly lit the night-time sky were quickly followed by deafening claps of thunder. The room was pitch black, interrupted only by the persistent flashes of bright white light. Being out in the elements, experiencing the power of mother nature was intensely stimulating.

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Maxwell Anderson Jr., or Max to most of his friends, had waited years to be allowed to attend his parent's annual Mardi Gras party. It was considered by many in their social circles to be the grandest party of the season. Max's mother, Edwina Anderson, was born and raised in New Orleans, and left when she married Maxwell Sr. so he could take a position that ultimately led to his running his own law firm. Edwina, like so many other wives of wealthy and successful husbands, was a 'bored housewife' who did charity work, worked out, and drank too much.

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This is a retelling of an experience a very good friend of mine (I'll call her Judith) had 2 years ago before she met the fella that she recently married. I have her permission to retell the story so long as I did not use her name or the names of anyone else connected to this. Her experience was so good that I don't need to embellish it in any way. So here goes ....

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The air conditioner kept the tractor cab to the same comfort level as my living room in spite of the ninety-five degrees of searing, July heat. I hit the hydraulics to raise the cultivator, made the turn, and lined back up on the next eight rows of soybeans. Another tap on the hydraulic lever caused the gleaming sweeps to bite into the rich, black, Illinois soil. It used to be hotter and harder work, but I liked it more when my ears were filled with the sound of the tractor exhaust instead of the local radio station, and when I could smell the freshly turned dirt and herbal scent of the weeds.

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