Your erotic stories

So the truth was, I'd hired her for her tits. The benefit was, she was sharp as a tack, the heart and soul of the daily operations as it turned out. The fact that Theresa had looks, and like I said a great pair of tits that she (sort of) enjoyed showing off was an obvious factor when I had hired her on. Being damn intelligent and multi-functional, I only learned after she had started working for me. Theresa had an olive complexion, long dark hair with deep-set brown eyes and full lips that were just begging to be kissed every time she looked at you.

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September is a lovely time of the year in Sydney. The winter chills have given way to a blissful warm sun, but the full blaze of the summer heat has not yet arrived. It is about this time each year that my body clock decides it needs some rays to shake off the winter blues. Luckily, I have a wonderful little beach within decent walking distance of my home.

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Spots of dappled sunlight streamed through the trees and danced and twirled on the pavement as I waited for her outside the building. She was always late, frantically trying to keep up with her life. Not that I would ever want her life, I snorted to myself. Immediately regretting the thought, I focussed on the distant rush of traffic echoing softly through what had to be the last quiet street in Brisbane's central business district.

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It was a dark, calm, clear Friday night in May. Layla had just arrived at her friend Joy's house for a sleep over because they had not seen each other in quite a while. Joy lived towns away, so of course they did not attend the same school. They had kind of grown apart with time, but still very much enjoyed each other's company and would be eager to catch up on what was happening in each other's lives.

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All characters in this story are above the age of consent (18). The story and its characters are all fictional (even though I wish they were not). I love hearing your comments so please leave one. I love to get messages from my readers. * Behind schedule, over budget, and never good enough for the client, status quo for a creative director; that was my situation when Sandra popped unexpected and uninvited into my office. "Somebody has a crush on you." She chirped.

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"Here we are -- home, sweet home," announced Amber as the car pulled up out the front of a battered old caravan down the far end of the park. "Looks great," I said, getting out of the back seat. "Homely. Looks like it hardly would leak at all in a storm."

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Tom was sitting in coach seat 23B, the middle seat. The seats on either side of his were empty, for now. The passengers were streaming onto the plane in that herky-jerky hurry-up-and-wait mambo that is repeated a million times a day on every flight to everywhere. As each passenger approached, Tom silently evaluated them and put them into one of two categories.

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The sound of crickets and cicadas sounded loud in the dark of the woods. An owl hooted and somewhere in the distance, a deer crashed through the bush. It was just past nightfall and Joshua Gardner was on his way home from his grandfather's farm after helping bale and put up hay. He was sweaty and itchy from the grass and hauling bales up into the old barn loft.

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I tore off one of the phone number slips from the bulletin board post and figured I would at least give it a try. Just the kind of job I was looking for, high pay (for a college kid at least), and didn't sound like a lot of work. I had never been an artist's model, or even really knew what that entailed. I was an engineering student.

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When I was little I used to sit outside with my Grandmother on her wide front porch and we would dream about what we would do to the gardens one day. It was one of my favorite things to do with her when I was visiting. My parents died when I was in my early twenties and my Grandmother was all I had left. Eventually I moved to New York City and made my life there, becoming a very successful writer. I had more money than I knew what to do with and I would send her checks, telling her to make her special garden.

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