Your erotic stories

Grace Discovers her Sister's Secret Sordid World The summer I finished my first year at university was uncharacteristically long and hot. A golden sun blazed down from a cloudless, crystal clear azure sky and baked the ground until the grass scorched and any unattended flowers shrivelled in the heat. It was a perfect time for me. I was nineteen and a full year at university had shown me life beyond school and the tight borders of the small, rural English town in which I had grown up. With little to do before the new term began, I had almost four months of free time stretched out before me.

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Christian sat in the back of the class, his eyes glued to the back of his teacher's skirt. She wasn't really his teacher, just a substitute. Every once in a while one of his normal teachers would be out sick, or take a personal day, and nine times out of ten he'd walk into the classroom and there would be Miss Anderson. Sometimes one of his buddies would have her in an early class, and they'd let him know at lunch what he would be looking forward to.

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The windows of the car were already steamy as she climbed into her boyfriend Steve's vehicle, passenger side. "Hey, Katie. How ya doin?" Who was that? Katie looked into the back seat of the car just before she sat down, then she looked over at Steve, a look of concern on her pretty rounded face. "Hi, Trevor," she said over her shoulder, trying to sound casual. "Katie, you don't mind Trevor hanging out with us, do you?"

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When I was a little girl, my dad worked as a carpenter. The company he worked for was like one big family; we'd get together for nearly every holiday for picnics and parties, all the parents and all the kids. There were about ten kids around my age, both boys and girls, within five years either direction. We'd hang out together, keeping each other out of trouble, just being friends.

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David Cross smiled to himself as he stepped out of his car, crossing the narrow, wooded street towards the house in front of him. House. It could hardly be called that. While not quite a mansion, the dwelling in front of him was beyond anything he had ever been formally invited to. Crashing the dean's annual Christmas party with this frat brother's years ago didn't count, he decided.

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It was another hot and sticky summer's day, so it was to be minimum dress and outdoors, with lots of cold drinks. Julie was wearing her yellow bikini and Simon his cut-off shorts - although he'd no plans to keep them on any longer than necessary! They'd had lunch indoors, during which they'd had a couple of glasses each of ice-cold white wine, and they'd just settled down outside again. They were seated in the recliner chairs, the remains of the wine in glasses beside them.

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I got home early and decided to go to the gym as I needed a good workout. That was one of the good things about this building. The gym was on the top floor so I slipped on a pair of track pants, tee shirt and sneakers and took the elevator upstairs. I worked the bar bells and then jogged on the indoor track for about an hour before heading for the showers. I undressed and left my things in the locker and, as I turned to head for the shower, I noticed a guy close a locker opposite me and as he turned to walk to the showers, I caught a glimpse of what looked like a very substantial organ hanging between his legs.

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When a man comes home to his wife and a houseful of women, it's either really good or really bad, especially when the conversation stops as soon as the door opens. And most especially when the women looking at him have those expressions suggesting they know something he doesn't (and of course they do -- it's always that way). His wife stepped forward and walked toward him.

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"The roads look like they're getting bad fast. You might as well stay here for the night." It was a reasonable statement of reality. Factual, logical. Looking out their front room window at the raging winter storm the last thing I wanted was to go out into the middle of it. However, the second-to-the-last thing I wanted was to encroach on their privacy.

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Two middle age men walk down a rain-soaked street on a dark night, and a small neon sign directs them down an alleyway. JIGGLE HUT, it reads. A bright red door at the end of the alleyway is well worn and has a big 'JH' painted on it in yellow. Marcus, the taller of the two, pushes it open and they walk in. Dark stale air glows with dim purple light, and bass heavy music throbs. A fat man on a stool that's way too small for him looks them over.

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