Your erotic stories

Kate was a very quiet girl, and I often needed to ask her to repeat herself. She didn't really open herself up personally, so even after a few years of working together, I still didn't feel like I really knew her. That said, she was also just a little bit flirtatious, and I flirted with her whenever possible as she was absolutely gorgeous.

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I stared at my reflection in the mirror and thought to myself "how did my life come to this?" I am successful business owner, a mother of two great children, and my husband is a good man even when he is not being a total asshole. So why am I thinking of crossing the line with someone else? Why is it after all this time I am doubting my sexuality? I am 43 years old and never thought that I would be tempted by someone of the same sex. But I never intended to meet someone like her. I knew the day I meet her that there was something more behind her eyes then first perceived.

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Halloween was fast approaching and Amy could hardly wait. She and her husband Mark were hosting this year's company Halloween party. The last few parties had been great and she knew this one would be lots of fun. She worked with a great group of people, and adding in their spouses or partners there would be 24 people attending. The party was this coming Saturday night and Amy and her husband were almost done with the preparations.

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Julia pulled open the front of her black lace kimono style wrap and brought both of her hands up to her breasts. Pulling down her black lace push-up bra slightly, she began brushing her fingertips gently back and forth over her nipples, causing them to stiffen hastily. She then began pinching and pulling on both at the same time. An elegant, fine-boned woman in her late forties, she was clearly comfortable with her sexuality, as well as her own body.

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Mark's the sort of man you can't help but want to tie down and gag. He's clean shaven, nicely dressed and well mannered with slight build and quick eyes—ah, but that Mr. Brady routine is just a front. The man is actually a tightly wound ball of futile energy and repressed urges. I think he only shaves his head to keep from tearing his hair out in frustration. After a while, his manic approach to life in general makes you want to push him down, sit on his legs and scream, "BE STILL!"

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Crack. The sound slices like a steel blade through the chatter of the conference room. Heads whip around, staring at me, while I stare at the broken glass of water. The glass of water I was supposed to bring. "Well don't just stand there, clean the bloody thing up." I bend down, black pencil skirt riding up slightly as I gingerly pick up the delicate shards of glass.

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Mark sat in his cubicle, hard at work. The monthly report on the department's finances, the production of which he had involvement in, was to be completed by Monday. Becky and Stan had already told him they were almost done with their part. No way am I going to mess us up. "Attention everyone," came a stern voice from the front of the office.

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To the average outsider, Paul had the world at his feet at the age of thirty. He'd been in charge of the entertainment agency since his father passed away four years earlier. He had a beautiful, spacious office that showed the city's skyline behind his desk, fine, mahogany furniture, with a imported leather couch in one corner. He drove a vintage Mercedes, lived in a dazzling condo in the best part of the city, and money seemed endless.

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When I was 19-20, I worked as a production assistant for a TV show which I won't name. It was not a huge deal. It was steadily successful in a small way, and is still on today. It was a fun job. Most PA jobs are not. You run shitty errands and never get appreciated. Usually the boss treats you like shit. This job was different. People were friendly.

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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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