Your erotic stories

I'd gone to the kitchen in Jay's apartment to get myself a sparkling water from the fridge—we couldn't drink what we'd really like to drink during the performance season—when his doorbell rang, and he let his landlord in. I just stayed out of sight in the kitchen, because I knew this was going to be unpleasant and I didn't want the landlord, who I'd heard was a real ass, to get the idea that I'd moved in with Jay after Dalton died. Which I hadn't, and I didn't think there was any chance Jay would let me.

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It was a hot summer day when Eric suggested they go out for a good meal and maybe dancing. Paula loved to dance, she could shake her ass better than most and had a ass most like to watch being shaken. With her long blonde hair and large breast she could still turn heads. She looked through her closet and found the little black sun dress she knew would show off her body and would make her man horny as hell.

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Valerie stared out the kitchen window at her neighbour across the alley. She'd met Patrick when he'd moved in, and while he had been polite, they hadn't maintained any contact more than a smile and wave if their paths crossed. But she'd been up close to him and that face had stuck in her memory. He was so pretty.

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I was watching a hot, nasty porn tape, dick in hand, having a perfectly good solo time one Saturday night at my new place. I'd lived here just a month after answering an apartment-sharing ad Jimmy had placed. He had a nice, spacious two-bedroom spread in West Hollywood that he needed to share with someone, and the rent was good.

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It was the deep darkness of a moonless night as I crept through the open glass doors from the rooftop patio into the open bedroom. I was barely able to see the bed and slid my feet carefully across the unfamiliar floor as I made my way towards it. Then I froze as I heard the sound of movement, and observed a bunching in the dark shadow of the bed. I hesitated about continuing, not want to be discovered,

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Judge Thomas Oakley slowed the car as he crossed Martin Luther Key Street on St. Catherine where it turned into Jefferson. He often slowed down here, in passing the King's Tavern Lounge—although he'd never gotten up the gumption to go in there. It was too close to home and he was too well known.

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It all started a few weeks ago while I sat in a bar after a long day of searching through the want ads. "How's it going?" said the clean headed muscle man who sat down next to me. "Not the best," I said, looking up from the paper. "I've been slogging around town all morning, looking for a job."

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I was hopelessly lost. The company had sent me to meet with a potential client, so here I was, hundreds of miles from home, driving a rented car, with no clue where the hell I was. The map the girl at the convenience store had drawn me was totally fucked up, and I was sure I'd made at least one wrong turn anyway, so there I was.

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He was rude to me when I first saw him, which is one of the reasons I remembered him. The other was that he was drop-dead gorgeous. This was in the souk (Arab market) in the Muslim Quarter of the Old City, one dull Saturday morning, and I was shopping for a Quran. Not some paperback English translation, but something really nice, an ornate Arabic copy I could display in my office at home.

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Derek leaned against the metal railing as his grey eyes passed over the crowded cafeteria. With the entire population wearing the same uniform he had to focus on faces in order to differentiate each inmate.

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