Your erotic stories

"Really, Sidonie," I said. "I didn't come to New Orleans just so I could help you keep your kinfolk in order!" My friend from college days grinned at me, lifting a rake through her big chestnut hair. Gavin, her husband, sat on the bed patiently channel-surfing while she finished getting gussied up for their evening out on the town. She was dressed in a red satin shirt, black leather pants and Doc Martens, and Gavin was equally street- and party-ready, although far less dramatic, in chinos and a polo shirt.

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I was pissed off. More pissed off than I could ever remember being. I wanted to kill him, put his neck between my fingers and squeeze until I felt better. I wanted to curl up with Ben, Jerry, and Cherry Garcia until it didn't hurt anymore. I couldn't believe it, how could he? What was wrong with me? I put the jeep into park inches from the garage door, put my forehead on the steering wheel, and tried not to bawl right there in front of everybody.

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The scent of cooked turkey still lingered in kitchens across America and the shops and stores were already decorated for Christmas; the coffee shop where Carol sat being no exception. Disconsolately sipping her latte, she didn't feel in a very celebratory mood. The promise of employment that had motivated her to leave home and move to the city hadn't materialized and now she was homesick, low on funds and still job hunting.

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He rose from his bed and stood in the dark, leaving her asleep in his bed. He looked out his bedroom window onto the street in a reverie of contentment, contemplating the events of the day. He remembered her kisses, remembered him inside her mouth. He remembered the sweetness of her pussy, remembered as she let him take her anal virginity earlier in the afternoon, her fear, her tears and her joy.

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