Your erotic stories

I watched as Diana slipped a short black, wrap-around dress over her head and pulled the belt tight. She was only wearing a tiny pair of wispy black lace panties and sheer thigh-high stockings under the dress. She sat down next to me and pulled on her matching high heel shoes. She turned to me and lightly kissed me with her full lips.

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Carrie stared out at the ocean; the view from her one-bedroom villa was astounding. The ocean waves lapped at the sand and the beaches glittered in the sunlight. The scene before her was unlike any she'd seen anywhere else, but then again the thirty-three-year-old divorcee hadn't seen a lot from the window of her two story home. What amazed her more than anything was the fact she was even here.

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I had just received a phone call from the Director of my daughter's summer camp informing me that I had forgotten to pack her allergy medicine and needed to bring it as soon as possible. After I had gotten over the frustration of having to drive three hours to bring the medicine, I showered, put on a floral pattern summer dress and began my drive.

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Let's start by describing the ladies in this story. Linda is a gorgeous 26 year old blonde. Big blue eyes and full " Angelina Jolie " lips. Petite body with wonderful 34c boobs. Flat stomach and a sexy round firm ass. My wife Sandra is a very stylish and beautiful 39 years old. Dark long hair and sensual brown eyes. Full 36c boobs topped by big round nipples. She is tall with the body of an athlete.

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"30 seconds until this lift is closed," called out the lift attendant as the two skiers made their way through the corral to board. Taking position, they sat down as the seat swung around behind them and shuffled close to one another as they brought down the safety bar. Glancing back, Dean noted that they were the last ones that got on the lift. "I guess this is the last run for the day then," he said, smiling at Beth. "Probably a good thing too given how cold it is, I don't want my dick turning into a popsicle!"

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Laura walked back to her house. Still smiling. Still warm. Still electrified. She never would have imagined kissing her friend good bye after the lunch date they just had. Not even to mention kissing her that way... Gail has licked Laura's lips. That was nothing like kissing her husband. It was nothing like she had ever felt. She decided that she would indeed have a terrific rest of the day off. When she went into the house, she set the security system. She certainly didn't want her husband walking in on her. As she passed the kitchen, she picked up matches and then continued up stairs.

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Mike had never thought of art galleries as a place to meet women. Hell, Mike thought about art galleries as little as possible. The Vallejo/Frazetta exhibit at the Tucson Museum of Fine Arts was a rare exception to the rule. Mike enjoyed fantasy-oriented art, and Vallejo was his favorite artist. There would be paintings by other, lesser-known artists as well. Mike made plans to check out the exhibit.

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Poor Theresa, just divorced, cute and sweet. I had to take pity on her, but not in a pitiful way. I suppose I guessed that her slightly meek nature was by choice rather than nature, as if she chose to be that way because she could make something of it. She was quite short, but she had this amazing smile that made her look ten feet tall – maybe other people didn't notice it, but I did.

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"Here's our room, little brother." Cathy pushed the door to her dorm room open and waved him in with a flourish. "I told you not to call me that here," Matt said. "Give me a little dignity as a prefrosh, please!" He grinned to lessen the sarcasm, hefted his bag, and strode into the room. It was bigger than he assumed, what with the college horror stories of prison-style closets that passed for living quarters. Cathy's room, on the contrary, seemed downright spacious. There were twin double beds, a couch and lounge chair, a pair of desks pushed together, and even a bookshelf to spare.

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I've always loved Paris art cinemas. These old, worn-out theatres, showing forgotten films in bad state, smelling of rotten fabric and dust, nowhere in the world is quite like them. There is something special about Parisian art-house cinemas; the very bohemian meets the very snotty, the richness of the film and the beauty on the screen conflicting with the nastiness of the space and people.

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