Your erotic stories

Hi! My name's Ellie. I used to live pretty wild and stupid, but then I had a baby and I decided to try and be smarter. Inside, though, I'm still as impulsive and hungry as ever. Sometimes to help myself work through my drive without acting out, I sit down to write about it. Today I wanna tell you about Stephen.

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As he exploded in her mouth she felt the car slow a bit, bearing to the right. She wiped the last remnants of his pleasure from her chin and sat up, taking a look at the rest area around them. They both needed to compose themselves so he picked a remote parking space in the RV lot and put the car in park. To their mutual chagrin, a small Winnebago pulled into the spot next to them.

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Daisy took her time dressing for the party. She wanted to look sexy and provocative. Her braless tits and hard nipples poked shamelessly through the tight red cotton top cut above her pierced belly button. A tiny black skirt barely covered her ass cheeks. The eye shadow was heavy and the lipstick bright red.

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Ella shifted in her aisle seat uncomfortably. It had been a long flight and there were still a couple hours left. On her right sat two hefty middle aged men, snoring obnoxiously or chewing on snacks with their mouths open, their pudge and arms spilling over into her seat. She had tried sleeping, listening to music, even reading, but nothing caught her attention and the flight was dragging on so slow. She sighed, wishing she was in New York already.

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"You want to do what you were talking about?" I didn't understand what my wife Carrie was talking about at first. Or at second, for that matter. She was lying next to me on the bed, her head turned away, as I re-read the latest boy wizard book in an attempt to lull myself to sleep.

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Back For More It had been nearly a year since that day at the sauna, but I can't say that a lot had changed for me in that time. Lachlan, the skip on the 'Mary' had taken me back on the boat. We got along pretty well considering he'd caught me fucking his girlfriend up the ass, and had broken my arm. Sandy was my ex-wife, and I'd known Lachlan a lot longer than I'd known her, so me and him got together over a beer and decided she wasn't worth falling out over.

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A meeting with the new boss, great. I hadn't met him yet so he called me away from my busy schedule just so I could meet with him. I hated meetings and was notorious for it, thinking they were usually a diversion from the task at hand. I walked down the hall toward his office, my face with an agitated grimace on it. Some of my co-workers caught on and began cracking jokes about it. "Mark Johnston," a sign on his office door proclaimed as I knocked.

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The knocking at the door persisted and eventually penetrated the layers of sleep. The rain had stopped and whoever was out there wasn't going away. A number of possibilities came to mind, none of them good. It had to be connected to the girl. Her father; her mother; a boyfriend ...? I've always been a glass half empty kind of bloke, a pessimist. My accommodation was a static caravan, the place I'd come to bash out the fourth in a series of novels, and escape out of a back door was impossible, simply because there was no back door.

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It felt odd, sitting in front of the screen, waiting to have a conversation with someone. But then it wasn't just a screen. A camera, too. I can see you. Big deal, I can see you too. I like the anonymity of the telephone, I can curl myself up, pull faces, read the news, hell, I can even play with myself, safe in the knowledge that no-one gets anything more than my voice. This felt a lot more dangerous.

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Owning a wine importation business I'm constantly surprised that people still believe in national stereotypes. Most of my suppliers seem to think that we all wear bowler hats and carry umbrellas, and that British society is like a Dickens novel. With Lord's of the manor living in castles and exploiting downtrodden servants, while the rest of us live in thatched cottages.

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