Your erotic stories

The engine ticked lightly, rhythmically, having only recently completed a twenty mile journey. Rain dripped from the frame of the car, from the edges of its bumpers. The windows were blurred, save for the two arches where the wipers had recently swept drops from the tempered glass. The car didn't belong there. Not in that parking lot. Not in that town.

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"Okay Heather if you want to be like that, fuck you! I'm not gonna stand here and take this shit. We're done." "Fuck you back you asshole! You damn right we're done! I want a man that treats me well!" "You mean you want a man that's whipped, that caters to your every idiotic whim, that hands over money because he's your personal ATM. In other words, you want a chump. I'm not a chump, nor that desperate. Besides, you ain't even that good. Goodbye."

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Patrice Mueller couldn't suppress a resigned sigh as she looked around the living room. It wasn't that it was dirty; it was that it looked fine. The whole house looked fine: a tastefully appointed exemplar of a white bread middle class dwelling. It was tidy, warm and cozy without a hint of ostentation.

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It was the biggest fishing trip of the year. Four couples were preparing to spend a week in the woods at a remote lake accessible only by seaplane. The plan was for fishing, just getting away from the city for a while, and communing with nature. Then disaster struck. All at once it seemed, one after the other, for various reasons, all of the other wives dropped out. Given the disastrous news all around, I telephoned my husband, Rick, and suggested that they make it a stag affair and I'd find something to do around here.

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She is at the sink, rinsing the last of the dishes from lunch, lost in the reverie of thought, she barely hears the squeak of the front door as it opens and closes in the front room. She feels a soft breath at her back of her neck, next a nibble and a kiss. Attempting to turn around to kiss her husband hello, she is stopped and a blindfold covers her eyes.

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Greg finally found his right new home. It was at the right size, right price, and a quiet neighbourhood, the place where he can quietly concentrate his home business. At 28, he was an ambitious young man. The next door neighbour was a couple most probably in their fifties. The man called Tom was a cold man who would pull a long face when coming across people. What sort of woman would fall in love with this kind of man, Greg thought.

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I am a 32 year old woman. My name is Tiffany. I have two school-age kids and have been married since I was 18 years old. Even though I have two kids, I have been told many times that I don't look it and get compliments on my 5'4" 38-24-36 body all the time. This is my story.

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One Saturday afternoon in September 2004, Dan was lying on his couch watching college football when his phone rang. A friend of his from work was on the other end. "Dan, this is Scott, what's up?" "Just watching the end of the USC game. What are you doing?" "I've been in the office all day and need to meet Lauren for dinner at 8 or so. Wanna grab a few drinks with me before." "Mmm, sure. I'm supposed to meet a few friends later. Mind if I have 'em meet us?"

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Dan had never been to this place before. Fox Lake was not really one of his favorite places to play. But this bar was interesting enough. Situated right on the lake, Wokini's was typical of lake bars the country over. Darkened windows, bright neon lights flashing 'Budweiser,' 'Lite' and 'Southern Comfort.' The smell of stale beer and fried food permeated the air, as did cheap cologne. What brought Dan here were not the rave reviews from Metromix, but rather the fact that Donna Morgan frequented this place as a source of young men to satisfy her nasty debauchery. Dan thought, 'What's good for Mrs. Morgan may be good for other married sluts.'

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Guy was a twenty-five year old washing machine service engineer who was mentally and physically marred by the scarring of adolescent acne. He was also thin, shy, and sexually frustrated, and was altogether the exact opposite of all that service engineers are supposed to be. His was not the life of continual housewife conquests and extended house calls no matter how much he wanted it to be, and on the only two occasions that he had made half-hearted advances to the ladies he had called on he had been rebuffed instantly, and threatened with being reported to head office.

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