Your erotic stories

They say that gold is power, but "they" are mostly male, and thus idiots. On the day she decided to stop living on goodwill and bland virtue, instead using her power for its hell-intended purpose, the witch did not begin dabbling in alchemy. After all, what do men pay gold for? Surely that's more powerful.

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She'd had too much to drink. She knew that, but how could she decline an offer from an old friend, especially one that had been friends with her and her husband when he was still living. Grace had been a widow for nearly a year, spending most of which trying to keep it together after losing a husband she had adored and at far too young an age. She was now a 32 year old widow with no kids and trying to readjust her life. This had been the first night she'd made herself accept an offer from a friend to go out to a bar.

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Her silence spoke volumes as she looked out of the open window and saw a sea of green fields, interspersed by little islets of trees and edges. In the distance, a shadowy grey escarpment blocked her view of the sea itself, but she could hear the waves throwing themselves against the cliff-face under the heavy grey skies; and he wasn't listening to her.

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After the last submission – Timmy's Step-mother gets Supersized – got such a pounding (and not in a good way!), I thought I'd put one up for the incest purists. This one is a Daddy/daughter tale. The car breaks down close to Jonathon's destination. He walks the last mile to the cottage and finds his daughter nude in the garden.

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"Oh fuck, I'm late!" Speaking quickly into her cell phone, 41-year old Natalie Franklin grinds her white high heel harder down on the accelerator of the BMW. On the other end of the line, a very girlish laugh is heard. "What are you giggling at, Tracy?" "It's just funny," she vaguely announces in a very soft voice.

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When my fiancé and I graduated from college, times were tough. There wasn't a single employer that was hiring. For a while I waited tables as we struggled to pay basic bills. After putting in hundreds of applications, I finally received an invitation for an interview from a company called QJ Productions.

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When she contacted me via here, she explained that she'd read my story and it had turned her on. My shameful story. The one about my desire to act as human toilet paper. In the exchange of emails that followed, Sarah told me she thought she wasn't anything special, just an ordinary lady of a certain age, a divorcee who worked in the City and right this minute was single and fancy free.

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Sandra looked at herself in the mirror, smoothing down her little black dress. The nervousness she was feeling didn't seem to show at all, but she wasn't certain if she would be able to keep up the façade of coolness, or if she would be able to go through with this. She ran her eyes up and down her reflection, pleased with what she saw, even after forty years.

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The interview is scheduled in a few minutes as I step out of the elevator on the twenty third floor of the newest office building in the city. An ambitious and demanding executive is seeking an assistant, making me aware that I'm about to face a perfectionist, deadline driven workaholic. At precisely 10-00 am, a slim, well-groomed secretary ushers me into a plush and opulent office and closes the door behind her.

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I was awake and standing in a crouch beside my bed before I really knew why. My hand was on the electronic lock on top of the gun safe and I was already punching buttons when I heard the pounding on my front door. When you live in the woods, pounding on the door usually means a neighbor in trouble, but the hair on my arms was standing up, and over the years on battlefields both wild and urban, I'd learned to trust my body when it moved into that kind of a primal response.

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