Your erotic stories

I had just divorced my first wife and like most men, I was wiped out financially; with child support and alimony checks to write every month. With what was left, all I could afford was a small two bedroom apartment with I shared with my roommate, Reggie.

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It began with a fire in the upstairs Lingerie Department of my local Debenhams department store. Something in the adjacent restaurant had exploded in a ball a flame, and the first thing I knew was one of the attendants grabbing me by the arm and hauling me out of my cubicle. To say the situation was inopportune would be a gross understatement.

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Lana is a 27 year old virgin. That's her state because of her background and more than a mild case of generalized social anxiety disorder. She was an only child whose parents died when she was 10. Fortunately – or maybe unfortunately because it allowed her to shelter herself – her parents were wealthy and left their money to her in a trust administered by her father's long time trusted attorney, rather than her gold digging relatives.

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The pain was fighting with the pleasure; the fear with the exhilaration. The struggle for the dominant sensation was sending my adrenaline through the roof. God, I was skipping along the top of the clouds. Shit, I was skimming the searing flames of hell. Pain, pleasure. Pleasure, pain. Right there on the edge. Would he love me or kill me? Would he fulfill my desires? Or would he take me to the edge of release only to abandon me to want and frustration? Either way, this was the edge that made me feel alive. This . . . this . . . this, right here, right now.

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