Your erotic stories

There was a time when I hated... everything. It was the year 3510 when I was dragged into this existence by my twin brother, Devon-literally. The asshole gripped my hands in our mother's womb and dragged me out with him. He's a black haired demon-god... not really, but I like to bother the fuck out of him with that little line all the time. Pisses him off.

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I unpacked my clothes and supplies in the beachside condo and walked a block to the store. It was late afternoon and I was in a beer mood. I stood in front of the cold case going back and forth, trying to decide what to get. A man and woman were standing next to me talking and laughing about the selections.

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You go to the fridge, dragging the door open, as the conversation continues loudly behind you. Laughter rings out over the clamor of the television and you draw four cold long-neck beers from the crisper, set them on the small silver tray you were given for your hostess duties this evening, and with a pop-pop-pop-pop the caps are all neatly removed and discarded. You brush down the leather skirt and adjust your corset before entering the living room again.

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Caitlyn was surprised when she awoke in her own bed. The last thing she remembered was passing out in the kitchen as Neil was commencing round four. The big rapist she had met at the Grocery store had claimed her for his own, and she was surprised to have awoken alone. Were it not for the condition of her body, she may have been tempted to believe the night before was all a dream.

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Trixie lurched through the door, heels clack-clacking on the laminate flooring as she stumbled. Failing to realise the racket she had just created, she turned and carefully shut the door, just in case her boyfriend, Gary, had gone to bed already. He had let her borrow his keys just case she came home really late, as he had an early start the next morning – a weekend away with the boys.

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"So, you think you might be OK, now? A different perspective, I hope?" "Yes, yes, thank you, . . . You know I haven't gotten your name. I feel so . . ." "No need to, son. You can just call me Dingle. And I won't be seeing you up here again, I do hope." "Umm. I kinda hoped that—"

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I got home late one night from my usual cardio session at the gym. Working out had got me sweaty and horny, so I raced home, glancing to be sure the DVD was still on the passenger seat, something I had grabbed from the gay section at the porn shop I worked at, before leaving for the day.

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Sweat dripped her brow. She smoothed her skirt over her nylon-clad thighs. Slender legs led to fuck me pumps underneath a cream-colored business suit tailored to show off her every curve. She looked one last time in the mirror, tugging her brown curls. She tucked one behind her ear before walking out of the bathroom and down the hall towards Bruce Callahan's office.

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The sun is setting on this Friday marking the end of a work day and work week. I watch the dynamically shifting color change while my car speeds along the two-lane highway. Although your email lacked specific details, I grabbed my backpack and jumped in the car anyway the sheer thrill of a weekend with you sets me in motion.

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Was it true? Did it really happen? Everyone always wants to know, don't they? It makes it hotter, doesn't it, to know that it really happened. I guess because they think if it actually happened to someone then it could happen to them, too. Well, it can. That's all I'm gonna say about my last story. It can happen to you, too, if you want it to happen.

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