Your erotic stories

Penny sat as still and quiet as she could, no longer sobbing, no longer fighting the ropes tied so tightly around her wrists and ankles. She didn't press her tongue against the gag in her mouth anymore, either; it only made her start to choke, and she wanted to be utterly silent, some small part of her hoping that they would forget about her, that no one would come back and make good on the threats they'd left behind.

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It's a balmy August night in the city, the kind where you try getting away with as little clothing as possible. The air conditioning in the restaurant is going full-blast, and I can see your nipples harden through your barely-there sundress, a series of goose bumps forming along your perfect, alabaster skin. Because we are waiting for the guest you've invited, I fight the urge to lean over the table and kiss the ones where your neck and shoulder meet.

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She got into the hotel elevator on the 7th floor, wearing nothing a swimsuit with a towel around her waist, at the same time I got out, and I knew I had to follow her. There was no doubt it was the same woman I'd noticed that morning as I'd left for the conference, leaving room 713 just after I'd walked out of 717. She'd had on a perfectly smooth pencil skirt over black hose or stockings, a matching jacket, three-inch heels, and a white blouse--the kind of business attire that drives me to distraction every single time.

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The motel was worse than Milene expected, definitely low-rent and in need of repair. Several disreputable-looking characters hung out in the parking lot, checking her out as she drove in. Drug dealers, Milene assumed, or maybe drug users. Or pimp types. This looked like the kind of motel that rented by the hour, as the saying goes. Then again, that's essentially what Milene was there for, so who was she to judge?

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"Ten full minutes. You gotta lay there, on your back, totally nude. Hands behind your head so you can relax." "Relax, right." How Mike and I wound up in this bizarre, slightly hilarious situation was fueled by very cheap beer and overactive 19 year old hormones. Well, Mike was 19, I was 18, and we'd been buddies since sophomore year of high school. Mike was a bit of a paradox. He was a soccer player who wasn't a jock, a metal head who wasn't a burnout, and a good student who wasn't a nerd.

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