Your erotic stories

I don't remember my first months at the convent. They say it was trauma amnesia. I was 7 years old when I was left there after my parents were killed in a car accident. I can not complain about the life I had there. It was better then an orphanage. The sisters taught me everything that a girl should know. Cooking, cleaning, and traditional education. I grew up knowing I was loved. It was my eighteenth birthday when Mother Superior sat me down to explain that it was time for me to leave.

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He disabled the burglar alarm then pushed the metal pick into the door lock at the back of the house; let the tool play across the lock's pin. Too much or too little pressure, too little or too much finesse guaranteed failure. The skill in using a pick is to bounce it in the keyway according to the resistance offered by each pin. Gently coercing the pins into obeying his will, he was sensitive to the sound, the feel of the pick touching each pin.

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