Your erotic stories

The cabbie looked at me knowingly as I handed over his fare. I just smirked in return. He knew what a girl dressed like I was , what I was after and so did I. I was dressed like a dirty, fucking slut for good reason -- I was a dirty, fucking slut. I had come to this shattering realisation in the twelve months since my eighteenth birthday party (sucking off four different guys as a present to yourself can bring that realisation you know) and ever since I had realised how badly I craved first sex and then as kinky and as filthy sex as could be imagined.

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Recently, while preparing vanilla icing for a tray of cooling cinnamon buns, I heard Todd yell from the bathroom. "Gloria, I haven't got a towel!" It prompted my memory: I'd washed them earlier and had forgotten to replace them. However, there were plenty in the hallway. "Linen cupboard," I called back. He thudded down the passageway naked and wet. Hot, I thought.

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As a newly appointed detective assigned to a special police operation Georgina was less effective than the effect she had on men, which was electric. It wasn't just a pair of long legs or the tiny waist emphasizing large breasts, it was more than that, it was the innocent look upon her face when listening to them. She had a way of tilting her head to one side looking intently into a mans eyes as though he were the only man in the world and what he had to say was important. Sitting in his car with her Sergeant, Angelo was getting the full treatment.

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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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