Your erotic stories

It was Berkeley California in 1969 and a bunch of hippies and dopers had taken over a parcel of university-owned land on Telegraph avenue and proclaimed it a People’s Park. The Viet Nam war was at its height, and when the police showed up to oust the squatters and put up a chain-link fence, the anger and futility of the anti-war protesters, the hippies, and all the people in between ran up against the agents of the Establishment and full-scale riots broke out in the streets, with cops and National Guard on one side and hippies and students on the other.

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As soon as Bimbette walked out of the night and through the front door, she knew she had found the place she was looking for. It was a small, dark, run-down taproom, in a questionable part of town, population: nine, including the bartender - all male, mostly black with a few white guys.

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As Lorraine walked up the steps of the mansion for Andrew's one o'clock lesson, she could hear him butchering Beethoven's "Für Elise" in a way so awful it had to be intentional. Sure enough, the musical carnage soon ended in a burst of raucous laughter followed by the sound of several people slamming their hands down on the keyboard—all in all a forced, nasty sound.

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My job is pretty boring. Most people say that, and most people truly believe it. None of them have to deal with what I do though. I give trumpet lessons at a place called Up the Scale. All day I deal with zit-covered, teenage brats that are taking trumpet lessons at Mommy and Daddy's expense. The worse they play the trumpet, the more they come back. It's like their parents are deaf or something.

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I had sat there at Joey's beachside bar for more than an hour, watching the young man playing in the surf. When I'd first arrived at the bar, both bored and out of sorts, I'd seen him on his surfboard, riding the waves and doing quite well at it. At length, however, I saw him tire of that and come up on the beach and bury the tip of the board into the wet sand, with a strong force that, in itself, would have arrested my attention.

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This is a true story. All of the events are written down here to the best of my knowledge and recollection. My name is Will and I work on the Butcher's counter at Sainsbury's. I'm about 5'11, have got a brown crew cut and green eyes. My build was more skinny than athletic, but I'd still call myself athletic, you know how it is. These events took place in the summer of 2002. I was 19 years old.

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"First the tide rushes in, plants a kiss on the shore . . ." Matt often started a set with something quiet and slow, like "Ebb Tide," when there was a convention or two in the hotel, like there was today—electricians and bankers. What a combination. Something quiet tended to settle and quiet them down to the point that he could stand it.

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Zarah's eyelids fluttered as she moaned softly, waking up to a pounding headache... what had happened last night? She only remembered having two drinks, not nearly enough to be hung over... She stirred gently, and only then noticed that her movements were strangely restricted... Her eyelids flew open as she suddenly took in her surroundings, her eyes locking on wrists wrapped securely with rope and attached to leads bound to the bedposts of the big four-poster bed in which she lay.

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Every once in a while there comes along a piece of poetry that can capture the essence of a moment within its words. Sometimes these words languish undiscovered for years and sometimes they are discovered by someone with talent. Only then can these words of knowledge, passion and other emotions be put to music and become a true piece of art.

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LeRoy was sitting on the porch, rocking and rubbing the head of that old hound dog of his, as Dinah walked up the stone path from the mailbox at the edge of the muddy road. She had walked slow up from the bus stop in the nearest town, at the mouth of a fold back into the Blue Ridge. The suitcase she was lugging, balanced on the other side by her guitar case, was heavy, but she wasn't walking slow because of that weight. She was weighed down by something more serious than that.

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