Your erotic stories

Twice during the short night, she had woken in terror and struggled in his arms. Each time he had held her tightly comforting her, his calm voice reassuring her that no one would harm her again. Nuzzling and petting her until she slept once more, it took more will power than he knew he possessed not to take her each time she woke and his hands travelled over her lithe, supple body soothing her fears.

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"So, you think you might be OK, now? A different perspective, I hope?" "Yes, yes, thank you, . . . You know I haven't gotten your name. I feel so . . ." "No need to, son. You can just call me Dingle. And I won't be seeing you up here again, I do hope." "Umm. I kinda hoped that—"

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To call the private studio of the Dominatrix a dungeon would, for the fortunate, earn only her contempt. Eschewing the contrivances of male sadomasochistic fantasies, the walls were painted a passionless shade of gray-green, the oak floor polished to the luster of ancient gold, and the sole window decorated with an embroidered ivory curtain, now closed.

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"Fire in the hole!" WHOOOMPH! Lauren Thompson watched with satisfaction as the two tapered smokestacks suddenly curtsied and bowed like 18th Century dancing partners, collapsing into a billowing cloud of dust. She rose from her crouch behind the wall of sandbags, turned off the bullhorn and walked back to the operations trailer to review the remote camera videotapes.

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Living with Paige was pure hell for Ally. Every moment she was around was like slow, agonizing torture which Ally often likened to having dull screws driven deep into her skull while having her heart ripped violently and awkwardly from her chest by hateful vultures. Well, maybe not that bad, but it definitely sucked in the worst possible way.

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