Your erotic stories

Sitting opposite me was an old lady loaded up with shopping bags. Other than her there were only two others on the train. As it neared my station I rose to go to the doors and the old lady rose also, struggling with the bags and packages. "Let me help you," I volunteered. "Thank you I seem to have overloaded myself slightly and appreciate your help," she said in a very soft voice, she smiled at me as she said this.

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Twice during the short night, she had woken in terror and struggled in his arms. Each time he had held her tightly comforting her, his calm voice reassuring her that no one would harm her again. Nuzzling and petting her until she slept once more, it took more will power than he knew he possessed not to take her each time she woke and his hands travelled over her lithe, supple body soothing her fears.

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I've always loved Paris art cinemas. These old, worn-out theatres, showing forgotten films in bad state, smelling of rotten fabric and dust, nowhere in the world is quite like them. There is something special about Parisian art-house cinemas; the very bohemian meets the very snotty, the richness of the film and the beauty on the screen conflicting with the nastiness of the space and people.

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As you instructed, My Lady, I am recounting, from my perspective, what occurred last Thursday evening. If it would give you pleasure to write it, I would be so grateful to read your perspective on that night. I arrived at your door at 6:56 PM. Knowing that you value promptness and punish earliness (seen as uncontrolled impulse) as much as you do tardiness (an obvious demonstration of a lack of respect), I waited four minutes before ringing your doorbell.

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