Your erotic stories

I took my eyes off the road for just a moment and glanced over at him. He sat looking straight ahead, in the passengers seat. There was no apparent sign of emotion on his face but I knew his mind was fixed intently on what might be soon happening.

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Mike had the damned ticket anyway, so it seemed crazy not to use it. Two tickets for the London Eye. On Valentine's Day. He'd booked it months ago, in the first flushes of his relationship with Vicki. He should have known it wouldn't have lasted this long. No, wait, that was wrong.

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Thursday August 14th started like any other day. My morning commute to work was uneventful, and the day itself was slow. My job as a financial analyst in mid-town Manhattan keeps me pretty busy, arriving early and usually leaving late. Most days I do not get to leave until 7:00 pm or so, but this day turned out differently.

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Jen's feet hurt, her legs were cramped, and she had to pee so bad she thought her back teeth were floating. She was beyond pissed, way beyond. The pressure in her bladder increased another degree, and a gnat started buzzing her nose. She tried to blow it away, but every time she did, the dam in her holding back the urine threatened to burst.

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Another sleepless night, the dark enveloping me like a lover’s embrace. My mind wouldn’t let me sleep; Aaron Black’s cock was ripping through my pussy and brain over and over. His muscles, his face, the power in those cold, cold eyes, they all haunted me.

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When I awoke this morning I immediately craved you. I let myself go to make love to you. I awoke facing you, looking into your beautiful face, your eyes opened, smiling into mine. I reached out, stroking your cheek, tears of joy in my eyes. We pulled closer to each other, holding, touching, silent but for our breath. Exploring, feeling, needing.

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Like many college students I take classes at all hours, after working a long day, I have night classes to face. All those subjects I never wanted to take, but have to, or I don’t get that beloved piece of paper that says I’m qualified to do my job. We park in deserted lots, huge fields of cement, that blend with the darkness as if waiting for the night to come.

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"There," she thought, admiring herself in the mirror. A cross stood out proudly on her chest, executed in black, cloth tape, the arms of the adhesive crucifix covering much of her breasts, the rest extending down her sternum to her belly. She adjusted her Catholic-school skirt, and reached for the makeshift headpiece with which she completed her revealing nun's habit.

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We've all seem them; an object of nostalgia and whimsy. It is a jewelry box, a place to keep secret and personal things, sitting on the vanity table of a particular kind of woman. There is the lingering hint of some perfume, a subtle reminder of the elegance of it's owner. It is the color of ivory, picked out in silver or perhaps gold, the edges frilled or otherwise decorated to soften the lines.

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Carolyn was a slut. I don’t like to use the word, but it fit her perfectly. She had a reputation in high school for giving it up to any guy who wanted it, but as far as I could tell not many guys claimed to have taken her up on it. She had an older sister who had graduated the year before, and the stories about her were even more widespread (pardon the pun) so I suspected that some of it was hand-me-down reputation.

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