Your erotic stories

I received a certified letter requesting my presence at the law offices of Wiggins & Sloan in Albuquerque, New Mexico for the following Monday. I had no idea why a lawyer would want to meet with me, but I cleared my schedule for the day to attend. The day of the meeting I arrived and was asked to wait until Andrew Sloan was available. The pretty receptionist offered me coffee, but I declined, butterflies flitting around my stomach at the idea of this type of meeting.

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"Maybe Mr. Smith would like to tell us what he thinks." I was suddenly jolted back to reality by the voice of my teacher. Realising I had been daydreaming again she'd spotted me and brought it to the attention of everyone else in the lecture hall, much to my reddening embarrassment. "Sorry Miss, I was miles away" I apologised.

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She found the DVD by accident. She hadn't been snooping; she'd been searching for her mother's blue sweater, but her rummaging through the drawers of her parents' bedroom led to an exciting discovery. Francesca held the plastic case, transfixed by the printed images on the cover. She experienced a tremor of some deep, terrible, taboo in the pit of her stomach, as though a nerve had been touched. She knew about porn of course, although previously it held no interest for her, but the discovery of a secret stash stirred feelings within her and the spark of lust ignited with hot vehemence between her legs.

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Fading autumn sunset caught the trees as I left the bus. Waited to cross the road, thinking about the last night I'd been with him. Her husband, and my closest friend, Allan. He'd died a few days later, a heart attack in his grim bedsit, during one of their periodic separations. I strode across the park, my head in confusion. Our evening would be difficult enough for me, but I couldn't begin to imagine how hard it would be for Betty.

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When the SUV pulled up near the oversize garage, Shelly looked over to her manager Mark with a strained expression on her face. Without a word, her face broadcasted everything she wanted to say. "Look Shelly, we both agreed you needed to broaden your sound, this is an excellent opportunity." "Are we here because it's an excellent opportunity or because it's free?"

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Serena McGuire hated boats; that was all there was to it. The rolling beneath her feet, the closed confinement. Even the sea air bothered her, although it never had before. Of course, she had been on a beach then. But the combination now had her stomach rolling along with the waves of the ocean. Her best friend, Isabel Trecher, instructed her that if she would actually spend some time on the deck, instead of in their cabin (which happened to be on the lowest deck, complete with two beds, one dresser, and no window), she would feel much better. Probably, Serena mused, because she would be as liquored up as Isabel is.

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Mattie Addison looked down at the small plastic object her mom had just placed in her hands. "What is this?" She asked as she looked up at her parent. "What does it look like?" Cybil replied to her daughter. "It looks like your Platinum Card, but it can't be your Platinum Card because you'd never let me within 100 miles of that," Mattie said as she brushed some of her dark brown hair from her pretty face.

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My favorite teacher was my math teacher, Mrs. Gibson. She was in her late thirties, a wife and a mom, but man, was she sexy! She had long full blonde hair, a pretty face, was average in height, and had big tits. Like most of the teachers she dressed casual more than she dressed up, but whatever she wore, it was hard to hide her hot body. I wasn't much of a math student, and since I had math my last class of the day, I spent most of the period staring at Mrs. Gibson and having fantasies about her.

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I got home from playing basketball, and my mom and her friends were in the middle of ladies bridge night. Two tables with four women each all looked over at me when I came through the door, and I turned a little red. I must have been a picture of loveliness, my sweat stained t-shirt clinging to my chest and back, my damp hair hanging in my face, basketball in the crook of my arm. I waved to my mom and headed upstairs. "Charlie!" she called after me.

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I am at the wheel of my rusted, two-decades old Chevy pickup. We have pulled off the road since we're in sort of a rain white-out, a blinding storm with whipping winds that are beginning to rock the truck itself. I shouldn't be surprised. Storms like this, coming in from the Atlantic, are not infrequent on Hatteras, part of the Outer Banks island chain along the North Carolina coast.

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