Your erotic stories

She stands in front of the apartment. Naked thighs cold from the wind swirling around the edges of the long coat she wears. She pulls the coat closer around her and shudders. He heart is racing as she raises her hand to knock on the door. Her nipples harden immediately. She knocks, once, then twice before she takes a small step back.

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The old fisherman sat out at the end of the dilapidated dock in his lopsided deck chair. Though it was getting on toward evening the sun was nice and warm. He was fishing really light; a homemade bamboo pole and an old reel he maybe got before he had whiskers. Duck-taped it to the pole and wound it with ten pound test. Fishing flounder didn't take much gear. He had a card of hooks, a tin with some weights and floats and some leader. Minnows in an old milk bottle and a plastic paint bucket for his catch. He had caught some.

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You smile as I kissed my way from your bare shoulder, up your neck, to the base of your ear. I make sure you're really turned on with lots of kissing. I move on to sucking your full tits, stroking your pussy... As you start to moan in response, I begin sliding a finger slowly in and out of your cunt, letting your horny pussy lube up my finger.

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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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A few months ago I met a guy called Edward and it turned out that, among his varied and chequered past, he'd been divorced and has a son in his late teens, just like me. His lad is called Ashley; he's eighteen and at university in Sheffield. My son is Jake who's nineteen and at Leeds. Edward is physically much larger and stronger than me; something I always enjoy in a man when we get to the bedroom.

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Jessica turned off the tap and stepped out of the shower, steam billowing out from the open door. She grabbed a soft cotton towel and wrapped it around her flushed damp body. She had rushed home from work and was now pleased that she had made the effort. There was more than enough time to get ready before Charlie came home. She planned to have her way with him and if he wasn't too tired she would sit on his face so he could use his expert tongue to make her scream. Simple and hot - just how she liked it.

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"Shut UP!" Marcy realized she was making a mistake as soon as she said it, but a whole semester's worth of pent-up frustration and irritation just bubbled out of her mouth and she couldn't stop it anymore. "God, I am so sick of you telling me how fucking great you are! 'Oh, I'm so hot.' 'Oh, I totally had that guy eating out of my hand.' 'Oh, don't you love how this outfit looks on me?' 'Oh, I could have any man I want.' You are such a vain, stuck-up, self-obsessed...bitch!"

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I had one year to go in my studies, at university, for my degree in public relations, arts, and media studies. I was starting to get a bit desperate for money. All my university bills were due. I was working part time in a coffee shop, but that had more or less stopped, since I had refused to have sex with the owner, even though he offered to pay me 200 dollars. I just did not fancy his big fat sweaty body on mine, and I knew he would want more and more if I agreed.

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"Holy shit." I said it out loud, and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, mid-step, staring at the picture on my phone. "He's...hot." I scrolled the picture on the screen, increasing the size to get a closer look, noting it was a scan from the back of a book. "Oh, that's right," I thought, "He's a writer." He was definitely hot, for a guy the age of my parents. He had a thin nose and high forehead, dark eyes with fine lines at the corners, and dark hair that fell around his face in waves.

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Ursula almost remembered the dream that night. The alarm shattered most of it; even as she was waking up, the strident buzzing noise crashed through the memories, leaving nothing but fragments. She grasped at them, trying to hang onto something, anything at all. There was a hand, she knew, a hand sliding down the swell of her hip and...and a taste like wet rubber...no good. It was gone. Ursula hit the snooze button, but the dream didn't come back.

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