Your erotic stories

Mum put the telephone down and turning to me said, "Do you realize you haven't seen Aunt Emma for nearly two years?" "Is it that long?" I asked, glancing up from the book I was reading. "Yes, and she wonders why, she thinks she might have done something to offend you; has she?" "No, I just haven't got around to visiting her and it's a damned long trek out there -- the far flung outposts of..."

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I had just gotten out of the shower, blow-dried my hair and was lying on the bed lightly running a finger between my moistening pussy lips when the doorbell rang. I groaned in frustration. I wanted so bad to touch my pussy and cum. As usual, after trying to entice my husband the night before, I went to bed without a cock. For some months now, Jim hadn't touched me once, and I was sure it was because of another woman.

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I gasped in surprise as I felt the cock force its way into my wet cunt. I knew it was big, but was not expecting it to feel so big. After all, my cunt was not as tight fitting as it used to be when I was younger. I was 57 years old, and had been around the block a bit during my time. I'd been married and divorced 3 times – and to be honest each divorce was my fault entirely – I'd whored myself around quite a bit and acted like a total slag.

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I prefer older women. Or to be politically correct, "mature" women. I'll take a "mature" woman in her 40s or 50s any day over someone who is younger. Why? My experience has been that mature women are more comfortable with their bodies. They are more open to receiving and giving sexual pleasure and are more open to sexually adventuresome activities like lots of oral, role playing, anal, and if you are lucky, you can find a mature women that is open to threesomes and more, if you know what I mean.

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'Knock...knock...knock'. Melanie put her book down and answered the front door. "Hi...Mrs. Barton," the good looking teenager asked, "Is Warren in?" "Ehm no," she smiled when she recognised her son's best-friend Lee Clark or Clarkie as he was known to his friends, "he's at work but shouldn't be long; do you want to come in and wait?" "Yeh thanks." He mumbled and wiped his trainers on the door mat as he followed the slim woman into the living room.

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Rachel Salvatora took a sip of her Chardonnay trying to ignore the turbulence that was wreaking havoc on both the flight and her stomach. She had been in her seat for an hour and was growing uncomfortable. Lynn had fallen asleep on her shoulder and she didn't want to wake up the young blonde woman. Rachel's sky blue skirt was running up her leg slowly but surely as Lynn moved her leg while she slept. Rachel wondered if the movement was intentional.

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I woke Sunday morning, tired, and with burning eyes. I wasn't hungover from my graduation party the previous night, but my eyes were betraying me as if I had been. I rubbed them a bit and tried to open them again but still felt as if someone had rubbed in fiberglass. I laid back in the bed and thought about the previous night. I was upset that the my best female friend and current best friend had hooked up at the end of the night and that she had not chosen me.

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Dave was sweating. The sun was warm but not uncomfortably so - it felt considerably milder than the sun back in Orange - but dragging the bag along the street probably hadn't been the best idea. It was well-suited to the task but the route he had decided to take to the hostel he was booked into was rather longer in person than it had seemed on paper. As he trundled down 33rd Avenue, he espied some shady greenery which turned out to be a park.

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ONE "AAAAaaaahhhh!!! Jesus!!!!" Candace moaned softly before biting her lower lip. She was bent over her large executive desk as Marcus pounded his long, thick shaft deep into her wet pussy. His hands were under her skirt, wrapped around her slim waist, her tiny panties stretched tightly between her ankles. Candace felt her breasts swinging beneath her and her stiff nipples were rubbing across the top of the desk.

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Sunday Morning in early March. I joined the regulars for coffee after a disappointing Saturday night; I hate to be part of a closing crowd, and so I'd left the Paradise Bar with fifteen minutes to go before the bitter end. It's my age, I suppose. As fine as I know myself to be at thirty-five, I just don't feel like competing at singles bars any more. So there I was, listening to the morning-after banter about the night before: Who did, who didn't, who got lucky, who got away.

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