Your erotic stories

If you have never been to Copenhagen, I swear you should go. It is a truly wonderful city by the sea. The inhabitants are hospitable, fun loving and to a surprisingly abundant degree, exceptionally good looking. The legend says that centuries ago, Vikings kidnapped the most beautiful women during their conquering visits to Europe, and deposited them back in Scandinavia to raise their offspring, resulting in the tendency for tall, blonde, healthy and attractive generations to follow.

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Sue and I have been friends and lovers for several years. One of the best things about our relationship is the fact that we're not afraid to share our fantasies with one another. One night while we were talking, Sue told me about a dream she had. In her dream, she and I were in the back of an SUV having sex while our friend, Phil, was driving us around. Although I didn't ask, I couldn't help but wonder if it was really a dream or if she was hinting around that she wanted to do that.

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My eyes slowly opened to a new day. This day was not like those gone by and as the sun shone through my window all I could do is watch its beauty. The pink streaks that peaked through the crags in the mountains reminded me of her rosebud just before his cock pushed its way into her swollen pussy. The day glistened growing ever pinker until the sun mounted ever higher in the sky, ever strong, ever dominant.

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Beside me she breathed, and giggled, and glanced over at me sideways. Her cheeks were flushed and a light sheen of sweat made her shine - her shoulders, her clavicle, her breasts with their rose-tipped nipples. I saw her stomach muscles contract as he slid deeper into her, and her fingers found mine, and my body tingled. My chest, my stomach tingled as her fingertips sought my palm and pressed down.

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Pulling apart the individually packaged wooden chopsticks, Nicole reflected that life did not get much better. They had spent the entire day together. First he had taken her to a horse show, then to the park, followed by a play and now this, a late dinner. They were the only two in the restaurant, a small building with traditional Japanese decor and fabric screens separating the dining area from the kitchen.

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Midlife crisis in men is a myth. What happens is that the wife starts nearing her menopause and the change in her hormones drives him out. My wife is ten years my junior at forty-five and just getting started. What used to be just PMS is now a full-blown psychotic episode. About a week or so before her not so regular period it gets so bad that she actually throws me out. I love the woman dearly but she really pushes the old "in sickness and in health" clause.

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We'd been together for a while. The bond was there – clear and strong. I was his at one time – there was no question. There was nothing I'd deny him – nothing. I told him of my fantasies and many times he used them on the phone or in person to take my lust to different levels. He sent me instructions in emails and text messages and knew with all the certainty that the sun would come up that I'd obey them.

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I've always adored old quilts airing on clotheslines in the spring of the year and my great Aunt Selina was a proponent of airing her quilts by spreading them on the grass to freshen them up. That is why memories of her came to me just now. Quilts have a special scent when they are placed in the sunshine...and James had placed several in the yard for this afternoon. Not so much for my visual delight, but for my sensual delight...one draped with care over two bales of straw and two upon the green grass on either side of the bales.

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Alyssa woke with a start and clutched the covers around her. Gazing around the room, she quickly relaxed, although the erotic dream she had experienced left her groin hot and pulsing with wetness. She shivered slightly and turned on her side, facing the softly snoring lump in the covers that was her boyfriend. She stared at his steadily breathing form for several seconds, wondering if she should wake him for a little midnight rendezvous.

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Katherine stumbled out onto the uneven back stoop, audibly groaning under the weight of the heavy-duty trash bag. It was full of crumbled plaster and strips of wooden lathe and swung ponderously, threatening to pull her over with each uncertain step. As her foot slipped on the sloping stone slab she overcompensated and was forced to let the bag drop with a heavy crunch. Catching herself with a sideways grab at the door frame, she slammed backwards into the peeling paint of the old wood siding.

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