Your erotic stories

"Good luck on the sting Craig, we've all got things we need to do here," said Officer Mike Rutledge. "Thanks, we need to clean these streets up they're getting more decrepit each night," replied Officer Craig Stanford as he left the police station. He parked his car in his usual sentry position where he's been quite successful over the last few weeks busting drug runners and prostitutes.

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DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the result of my imagination or are used within a fictitious context. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, places, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

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I suppose you could say it was my own fault. I was on holiday and I suppose I let my hair down a bit. You know how it is. School's over for the year. You're eighteen and away from home. Nothing to do but have a good time. And that's what I was doing. That's all. I wasn't doing anything wrong. Not really. On this particular day I'd hired a moped and gone for a drive. I was just another teenager buzzing around on this little bike. It was fun.

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I moaned loudly as the phone's ringing refused to stop. I rolled twice toward the sound, tossing blankets to the side as I did, and reached up to grab the phone. "Hmmmm?" I voiced into the receiver. "Ms. Calista Holiday?" a deep voice asked. "Yes," I responded. "This is Aidan Conner. I must regretfully inform you of the death of your great-aunt, Faye Michaels." The man's vaguely familiar accent registered, but his words didn't.

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I was 18 and had a job as a paperboy for a while when I was growing up. Once a month I'd go around to all the customers and collect their payment. I had just about finished one day, but still had to collect from several new customers. I'd been dodging light showers for a while and was trying to hurry since I could see darker rain clouds coming in. In the process I'd gotten a bit wet but I didn't want to stop because I'd be getting paid as soon as I turned in these payments.

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Author's Notes: Contains violence and what could be considered blood-play. ~*~*~ He could smell the blood everywhere. The scent was so strong that it seemed to cling to everything in the large building as he hurried up the stairs, taking two or three at a time before he burst into the room, nearly pulling the door from it's frame and hinges with the force of opening it.

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I had only been out of work for a week, and already I was getting bored. And that's a bad thing for me . . . to be bored. It's how I always get into trouble. Okay, it's one of the ways I get into trouble. So here I am, back home in the mountains of Tennessee, and I need something to do. It's beautiful here, and very secluded.

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I have had a thing for older women since I was a small child, even when I was really young I remember getting extra dirty just so my babysitter would give me baths. Nothing was beyond my young imagination to get naked in front of them, or have them touch me. I never outgrew that stage, in fact I would think it had the opposite effect, I become even more

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I am Frank Stokes, 64 years old, retired from an executive position in a large corporation. My wife of 35 years passed away 3 years ago. I live in Brentwood, a golfing community, in the Atlanta area. There are three 18 hole golf courses. One easy course, one a little more difficult and the third, for experts, more difficult. Lots of sand traps, water and longer. I play the middle course.

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Dee and I were lying in bed one Saturday morning, just being lazy. We were watching cartoons of all things. One of the characters had the dilemma of choosing between two girls. He went back and forth between the two, and in the end, he was alone. I laughed. "I don't see why he just didn't pick one," I said. "Maybe he couldn't choose. They might both have good qualities." she replied. "But one has to be better." I said "But deciding which one is better might be hard."

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