Your erotic stories

I am nervous as I walk up the stairwell. The sound of my shoes scuffing each stair reflects off the dingy once-white walls of the narrow hallway like an insistent warning, telling me to turn around and walk away with every step. Yet I continue, pursuing my chosen course with the same timid determination that has carried me through this day. Ever since I came out to my car and found the note tucked underneath my wiper blade.

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I sat in the lounge, swirling my gin & tonic, absently tapping a finger to the piped music. Nothing about this trip had lined up as it should have: a week in Florence, now on my second day in Rome, with nothing to show for it. My backers would not be pleased, but I was not concerned with their disapproval. I'm too much of a professional to place anything above my own standards.

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Ian tapped the "End Call" button on his phone and tossed it on the couch. He went upstairs, two at a time, noting that he needed to dust the bannister as he went. In his room, he went straight to his dresser and pulled out shorts and a polo shirt. This was a modest upgrade from the athletic shorts and old tee-shirt that he had been wearing, but since Jessica had invited him over, he decided he should look at least partially presentable. His cat rubbed against his leg as he pulled the shirt over his head, reminding him that he needed to clean the litter box.

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When you have someone like Anne working for you, it's pretty easy going to work everyday. Not only is she a top-notch assistant but she's absolutely beautiful and best of all, I get the pleasure of fucking her whenever the opportunity presents itself. I first fucked Anne last fall when I took her on a business trip. The original plan was for it to be a one time thing because at the time I had this silly rule of what goes on out of town stays out of town. In fact that's the name of the story describing our first encounter.

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I guess I should have realized that something like this would happen eventually. I was always made fun of in school for having a "girly" build. At only five foot 4 inches I'm not particularly tall. I have slim shoulders, thin arms and legs and my hips are probably more shapely than most guy's. I didn't exactly help things by keeping my blonde hair shoulder length. I told everyone it was because I liked metal music. Most of all though, I apparently have a nice ass.

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I was one of those young people who didn't really give much thought to what I would do with my life as far as a career went. Oh, I had interests, sure, I even majored in one, biology. It was after I graduated that I realized that industries hired lots of chemists, but few biologists. The states hired a few each year but no where near the number that flooded into the job market every spring.

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I've arranged to meet a friend outside the local ice rink, but when I arrive, she isn't there. It's started to rain, so thinking she might have gone inside to shelter, I open the door and step inside. The sudden blast of icy air chills my bare legs, unexpected after the warmer air outside. The building seems to be empty, so I turn to leave, not wanting my friend to arrive outside and leave, assuming I'm not there.

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My Friday night tennis matches were always fun. It was mixed doubles, with an equal number of men and women playing, and after each set we changed partners. After this particular night's five sets of tennis were over, I was taking my time leaving the courts. I had played unusually well, and I was sitting on one of the benches, just sort of reliving my good playing.

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Sitting out on the back deck I do not always hear the doorbell when it rings. I should probably fix that problem some day since I spend so much time out here enjoying the view and sun. Then again I do not get many unexpected guests. I live on the outskirts of town on a large bluff. The back of my home faces the south towards the city and the view is spectacular.

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My name is Dylan, and I'm a rapist...or at least I thought I was. Lying there in the dark, pretending to be asleep and listening for the tell-tale crackle of a police walkie-talkie from outside my apartment door, I wondered if Samantha was still in her bedroom. Wondered if she'd called the cops to tell them her roommate had raped her, or if she'd fled the apartment and was banging on our neighbors' doors, desperately trying to find someone who'd help her.

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