Your erotic stories

Lois wrapped her hair in a towel and put on a robe. Alan hardly looked up from his newspaper as she walked into the kitchen. "Morning," she said. "Hey," he replied. Another minute of silence as he read. Then, "Coffee's ready." She poured a cup, added some sweetener and sat down at the table. Alan read the Sports section. Lois closed her eyes for a minute and gathered her thoughts. Thursday sales meetings suck, she thought.

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"Three thousand dollars for a transmission! that's ridiculous and besides it wasn't my fault that piece of junk broke when I was driving it" Keri exclaimed exasperatedly. I replied "piece of junk or not. it's my car, you weren't supposed to be driving it and from what the mechanic said you were not exactly babying it when it broke. You busted it and you're responsible for getting it fixed."

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I love dirty talk. It is a super aphrodisiac for me. When a man whispers nasty things in my ear I get all hot and bothered. He can take me from a standing start to full speed in nothing flat, leaving a streak of metaphorical rubber smoking on the metaphorical pavement.

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From the outside, the place was even worse than Rose had expected. The entrance to the long dirt driveway was hidden by pines and kudzu, and she drove right by it on the first pass. Once she was finally on it, her wheels spun, kicking up gravel and wet red mud from the recent rain. Good thing her Tercel had already seen its better day.

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Ramsay closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and unzipped her jacket. Her mother would have never let her leave the apartment had she seen how her daughter was dressed. The snug, low-cut camisole didn't quite conceal her lacy black bra; the hem of her plaid skirt fell several inches above her knees. Her black patent stilettos were decidedly of the "fuck me" variety. Ramsay peered down at her ample cleavage, watched it rise and fall as she struggled to catch her breath.

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Sunday Morning in early March. I joined the regulars for coffee after a disappointing Saturday night; I hate to be part of a closing crowd, and so I'd left the Paradise Bar with fifteen minutes to go before the bitter end. It's my age, I suppose. As fine as I know myself to be at thirty-five, I just don't feel like competing at singles bars any more. So there I was, listening to the morning-after banter about the night before: Who did, who didn't, who got lucky, who got away.

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I was at Steve's place having a beer and a chat; I heard the front door open, and the voices of Steve's wife Judy and daughter Becky came in. They had been out to measure up some things in a flat that Becky had bought. Both came in and I stood up to say hi, I receive the usual kiss on the cheek, and hug from Judy and then from Becky as well, as she said, jumping up and down, "Hi Bob, nice to see you, it's been a while, how you doin?"

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Patterson and I had just ordered a pizza when his phone rang. He glanced at the Caller ID window and looked up as the waitress brought us a pitcher of beer. "Sorry, dude," he said. "I need to take this one. It's Mom." He looked away and lowered his voice as he turned his attention to the call. I tried to pretend I was suddenly interested in the clever "Go Tigers!" declarations hanging on the walls of Sal's Pizza.

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Kate double-checked her hair in the glass window of Professor Foster's front door. She wasn't sure why, but the 18-year-old wanted to look her best for her teacher. Probably because it was her first day on the job as his babysitter. "Normally, I'm reluctant to do this during the semester," he'd said at the end of his last lecture, "but my wife and I are really in a bind.

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