Your erotic stories

It's Dayna's fault again. It's Dayna's fault that I'm up at 3:30 in the morning on a Thursday, struggling to keep my eyes open, nursing a bourbon, sitting in my office. That girl is nothing but trouble. I've raised three kids now and two of them turned out fine. Julie is in med school, dating a handsome venture capitalist who knows exactly how much to kiss up to me. Tommy is a little bit of an introvert, but studying computer programming at MIT is an achievement that makes me proud of him.

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Her face is perfect, angelic. Her eyes are a soft blue, her hair pale blond. Her features are delicate and childlike, her lips plump and tinted a soft rose. Her body is slender and sylphlike, sheathed in a high-waisted slip of a dress, gauzy and coy. He wants her, wants to possess the innocence she embodies, wants to drive himself into it, own it and shut it away so he'll be the only one to ever taste it.

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Alex couldn't stop thinking about Serena. The paperwork below her was an unintelligible mess; her computer screen was a blur. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Serena's bound body, writhing on the bed as she exploded with orgasms. Every beautiful facet of that experience was tantalizing her in that moment. All desire beforehand, tempered in comparatively tame fucking, built up to an excruciating release.

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Tonight is the first time in three months that I have attended the monthly Saturday night mixer that has been a tradition in Portland for almost ten years. The initial group of about fifty people from fraternity affiliations, support of the football team and college groups of all kinds formed right after graduation from the University of Oregon. Over time we've added OSU and PSU members to heckle. We've also have dates and spouses that still come after relationships broke up.

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I am a man haunted. Driven to the depths of despair and raised to the heights of ecstasy by that girl: a slim young creature who bewitched me and made me half crazy as I careened between fierce lust for her and bitter remorse for what I subjected her to. It was not always this way. For most of my life I was the soul of dignity, a true gentleman. My life was a tranquil sea, roiled neither by triumph nor tragedy.

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Cruise Ship Cinema was an older style movie theater that had been converted to a multiplex as best as the architecture of the antiquated building would allow. There were eight theaters and an oversized entry lobby. The projection loft was on a second floor that ran above the lower ceiling hall that separated the theaters into two banks of four.

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PART 1 I race to a halt and stand panting outside the office. My feet are killing me. These new high heels are not made for sprinting. Gulping a few nervous breaths, I smooth down my pink top and white mini. The door is ajar but I knock anyway then take a few steps back. I look down at my fluffy pink purse swinging back and forth across my thighs as if it's as anxious as I am to get this thing over with. The door jerks open and I watch two slightly scuffed, black shoes step towards me. I dare not look up.

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It wasn't auspicious for a relationship; he wasn't quite...right. Not that there was anything wrong with him per se, because there wasn't. We had met online through one of those dating apps; he was sweet and funny and intelligent. Normally he would have been perfect, but I needed something...more.

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On the hottest, steamiest night of the summer in the big city, I almost met my Maker. I was an undercover cop working for the vice squad, about to observe and take part in a drug transaction outside the Frisky Bar, a gay strip joint in a seedy part of town.

Moving down the alley closer to the drug buy, I moved out of sight of my partner (a mistake), and passing behind a dumpster, I saw the perp and his customer.

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It was a beautiful fall day in Niagara-on-the-lake, in southern Ontario. It is the time of year for the grapes to be harvested in the wine region of Eastern Canada. Matthew's schedule was tight and he had been watching the vineyards closely since returning from Chile on the World Winemaker's Conference in Santiago. His Assistant, Richard de Grosse, had been invaluable to him during the summer lead up to this.

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