Your erotic stories

How do I get myself into these things? Because I'm a sucker for men who beg, that's how. Look on my forehead, see the big "S"? It magically appears whenever a man gets down on his knees, clasps his hands together, and says "Please, please, oh pretty please?" It must be some sort of motherly instinct. I never had any kids, and I always thought I transferred my need for raising children to my dogs.

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I couldn't believe I was doing this. No matter what I said to reassure myself, nothing would make me believe that I was ACTUALLY doing this. I had always been the good girl, the one who went without, the one who put others first at her own expense. I had spent so many years bottling up my deepest desires that I almost couldn't remember them. But not anymore. Not this girl. No way, no sir. Technically, I was cheating. The papers weren't even drawn up yet, and here I was, fully contemplating a lusty afternoon chock full of sin.

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It's a beautiful hot summer day and I'm in the front garden admiring my hard work. Weed free beds, blooming flowers soaking up the water I have given them, bees and butterflies dancing to natures tune. "Hey Mrs B, how are ya?" I'm startled, shaken from my reverie. I see Robbie's friend Dean on the pavement, looking young and fresh in shorts, jogging on the spot. I smile my automatic welcoming 'Mummy' smile.

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"Excuse me Miss, but... blah, blah, blah" a man spoke to me as he grabbed my wrist as I walked past him. "I'm sorry?" I replied, turning to face him. The music in the club was so loud; I couldn't hear everything that he was saying. Still holding my wrist, he bent forward and whispered in my ear, "I said that you have amazing breasts!"

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It was late, just after 2am, and my wife Lynn and I were finally getting around to going to bed. She hates to go to bed alone, so when I have work to catch up on, she'll normally stay up with me as late as is necessary, surfing the web, playing Solitaire on the computer, or reading until I'm done. Sometimes when she gets interested in something she finds online, I end up waiting for her instead.

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Brandy smiled as she assessed her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door. She had tried on her new work uniform and what there was of it, fit her like a glove. Brandy had just completed her freshman year at college and decided to make a little money over the summer. She had accepted a waitressing job at Hooters and the famous orange satin shorts and white tank top had never looked better.

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"You are kidding?" I shouted at the van driver as he walked to his vehicle; "Seriously...you are just leaving them there?" He continued ignoring me even though I had my hands on my hips and I was tapping my foot on the pavement, to show him that I was really angry.

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"Who could that be," Tia wondered as the doorbell of her condo rang. She had arrived home late. Although it was a Friday, she had no party to go to tonight and had decided to stay extra long at the office to catch up on some paperwork. She had only managed to hang up her blazer, kick off her shoes and toss her pantyhose into the hamper. Dinner was next on the agenda.

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Brandy marched across campus with a determination she had never known. She was so focused in fact, that for once she didn't notice all the usual glances, stares and double takes she caused when she walked by. Brandy had an angelic face, with large, bright, brown eyes, her face was framed in shoulder-length, shiny, brown hair, which bobbed and swayed when she moved. This heavenly visage was contrasted, by her body, which looked as if it had been made for sin.

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This town is new to me. Only last month I lived in Florida. Now I live in North Carolina in a small town 15 miles north of the university. My friends were surprised that I bought a tiny house of 500 sq. ft. instead of a traditional 2000 sq. ft. one. But they shouldn't be since unlike my friends I have no mortgage or car payment. The freedom to invest or travel or to do whatever I want to do with my income came about as a result of choosing to live below my means.

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