Your erotic stories

"Nice spot for a party," Candi Martin smiled, gazing around the interior of the luxurious beach house, then giving Mia Nelson, her latest model find and newest bedroom conquest, a suggestive wink. Candi shivered, looking at the honey-blonde's sensational bod in the snug, glittery hot-pants ensemble Mia had chosen to tempt her with.

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The Orient Express train had left Vienna Station at dusk, and there was no longer anything to see out of the coach window, the lights of the towns flashing by having been extinguished hours ago. Magnus the Authenticator was weary, and the clacking of the iron wheels on the iron rails as the train thundered toward Belgrade lulled him. But the unfamiliar noise of the speeding train and frequent lurch from side to side robbed him of sleep. He'd never ridden a train before;

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The cleaning girl, Monica, had arrived early on Friday afternoon. "Good afternoon, Ms. Stephens." Monica said. "Please, call me Jennifer." Opening the door to her two thousand square foot home, the tall, statuesque woman smiled at her cleaning girl. The eldest daughter of a neighbor down the street, Monica had grown into an incredibly sexy young woman. Jennifer shut the door behind her and stared dreamily at the young woman, shaking her head slightly.

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Henry 'Rocky' King lived two doors down from me. We had 'bumped' into one another at least three times a day for a year, coming and going mostly from our jobs. We had never actually had more than a casual conversation as we passed each other in the hall or shared a ride in the elevator. Henry, or Rocky as he preferred, was older than me by about 15 years but was in better shape than most guys my age.

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They had first met in an insurgent camp outside Yogyakarta in the Indonesian jungle, far from their own country of the Philippines. In the Philippines there was little chance that they would have met, especially while the Americans were still there in force, but even in more recent years when the government had been weak and taken up with internal squabbling.

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"So, would you like to put your mother's name on the card?"

I stood there in the florist shop, completely stunned. I couldn't speak for a moment. My mind was both a total blank and fast-forward video, my whole life racing before my eyes.

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He was laid to rest in the crowded little graveyard adjacent to the small Anglican church on the fringes of the Kyrenia Harbor in Cyprus. My mother had shown no interest in interring him in the States—or even in attending the burial ceremonial in Cyprus. But I thought that, in any event, this was a fitting place for him to be buried. This was where he belonged. He had taken his stand here and lived the last decade of his life here. I just wished I had been part of that last decade. Of course, that was as much my fault as it was his.

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"I think he's signaling to you, sugar." I'd stopped to talk to the two guys who regularly positioned themselves at the corner of 4th Street Northwest in Albuquerque and the alley in which I temporarily resided in a cardboard carton. I hadn't been there long following a relocation from Las Vegas and, although I'd found some work as a gofer on a high-rise construction project downtown, I didn't have near enough funds yet to rent a room—or even to have three squares a day.

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It was a good night at the Crow's Nest Coffee House. The audience was larger than usual, probably because it was the beginning of the tourist season. My set went off without too many problems, rare when I'm working on new songs. At the end of the evening several people came up to the stage, where I was packing up my guitar, and commented on my playing.

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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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