Your erotic stories

Heather nuzzled into Conner's hand as he placed it on her cheek, and she looked up into the cornflower-blue eyes of the lithe-figured blond college junior as she cupped his balls with one hand and sucked on the bulb of his cock with her mouth. She was sitting on the foot of the bed in her university dorm room, just in her panties. Conner, pantless and briefless and his sport shirt open to expose his trim, but well-muscled torso, was standing between her knees and telling her what he wanted her to do next in the blow job she was giving him.

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There's nothing worse than two divorced guys sitting around watching television on a Saturday night. Lamar lost everything when his wife took everything he owned. All he had left after he got home from work that day was the car and the clothes he had on his back. I wasn't much better off. The only difference seemed to be in the bills that were left behind. In this department, I was the ultimate loser. Still I managed to get a tiny apartment behind an old house on the outskirts of town. When I found out Lamar's troubles, we decided to chip in together.

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The only thing that kept me from beating someone's face in at work that day was the complete absurdity of it all. I manage a large do-it-yourself home improvement supply store. A hurricane was churning up the coast, and people were going insane with their over-preparation for the storm. The media's "public service announcements" warned of Armageddon.

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It was with some frequency that James Hartman returned to his old stomping grounds in the ATL for job related responsibilities. Atlanta held many memories for James, good times, pleasant reflections and melancholy longings. It was a trip he always took with much anticipation because it presented itself with the hope of exploring his deepest, darkest, most perverted desires. James had a dark side that hadn't had an outlet for quite some time.

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It has been two weeks since I've seen my husband. Lou's been working at his law firm's office in the Grand Cayman and has made arrangements for me to join him for his last weekend there. Relaxing in the back seat of the limo; I was staring out the window at aqua blue waters of the Caribbean, deep in my thoughts, what's it going to be like today? How will he do me?

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"Please...please..." she begged quietly out to the darkness. "Take what you want, I swear I won't say-" "Shut up." He said it quietly, calmly. Jaquelyn didn't know how the man had gotten into her home, much less managed to get into her bed room without her hearing a sound. Had she forgotten to set the alarm? She had been apprehensive about living alone, but to have her worst fears come to fruition was something she thought was just her typical paranoid, overly cautious imagination.

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Jenny Tidwell, president of Pi Phi, had one basic rule in life. Anything good that happened was her doing, and anything bad that happened was someone else's fault. Her plan in life was also simple: marry rich, make her own money and live life at the top. It was her senior year, and she was dating Chase Carlisle, the former president of Chi Sigma, now graduated from college and away at law school but close enough that they kept their relationship going.

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Liam knew he owned the school. He was the best football player this small local college had seen in years and there was even talk of him trying to go pro. He had his pick of all the girls on campus; life was good. Except for one little problem. His US History professor was tough. He didn't even help the athletes out. In the tiny town in the south, most of the athletes were white, so there was no talk of any racial discrimination by this professor, but he discriminated against guys who were young, talented, handsome and played sports.

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The Gash was the worst beat in town, and being the cop working it meant that you had three options: get promoted and get reassigned, leave the force, or wait to die. Cops had a shorter lifespan in The Gash than a white-girl's virginity did in a rap concert. I had worked this beat once, before I took done a cop-killing drug-dealing Puerto Rican slut named La Zorra and made vice. There was no need for me to come back to this shitty-ass place, but I wanted to. The Gash was my connection to someone I cared about. Someone who needed my help.

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The next-to-the-last weekend had now descended for the gang at Spirit Lake before summer ended and we scattered again to our respective colleges and "whatever" activities. Giddiness was high, which is saying something for the group of friends from the affluent Atlanta uptown district of Buckhead, but we'd been on the other edge of giddy every weekend we'd come down to the lake.

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