Your erotic stories

Around two o'clock on the afternoon of her nineteenth birthday, Katie was bored. She perched on the arm of her Dad's favourite chair and gazed out of the window at the quiet street where she had grown up. The house was on a T junction so Katie could look straight down a stretch of road for about a hundred yards, past the neat front gardens, to where the street curved out of sight. Nothing moved in the sunshine. The whole street seemed to be taking a summer afternoon nap.

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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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Megan and I had gone to Chicago to visit her friend Amanda. We stopped on our way back from a family reunion in Cape Cod, when I'd sort of freaked out and given up on our relationship. We'd fought a lot during that week, but were still together and going through with our plans to visit her friend. One of the nights we went out to a bar with Amanda and her roommate Jen.

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When I was 19-20, I worked as a production assistant for a TV show which I won't name. It was not a huge deal. It was steadily successful in a small way, and is still on today. It was a fun job. Most PA jobs are not. You run shitty errands and never get appreciated. Usually the boss treats you like shit. This job was different. People were friendly.

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George sat looking at Mary unhappy with what he was seeing. The twenty year old had shown up with plans to go out clubbing with his daughter Connie, whom was still in the bathroom applying her makeup. All of this was normal. The trouble was, every week Mary's clothes were a little more trashy. This week she had knee high fuck-me boots, miniskirt, and bustier, all in black leather. The outfit was garnished with fishnet stockings.

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Sitting in the airport is never much fun, regardless of the reason behind traveling. I'm a seasoned traveler though and even despite all of the new security measures and increasing delays, it seems that I'm at the airport more often now than not. In fact, with my relatively new job, I'm traveling more now than ever. But who's complaining, right? After all, it's putting food on the table. I've never been one to complain too much anyway.

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Growing up my sister and I had been really close. We were only separated by a year, so her and I were two peas in a pod. Then junior year of high school came around and I started seeing other guys, and my sister hit more of a standstill socially. She was awkward around guys, and actually seemed to enjoy her time more in the private confines of her girlfriends. I found it strange because most girls were looking to date, or at least find a guy to hook up with a practice on before college.

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You had to be living under a rock this past year not to know the economy is in the pooper. But even in these economic hard times, people continue to buy houses. So it was when the old two-story cottage beside me went up for sale in the last quarter of 2007. It sat empty for nearly a year until a middle-aged woman purchased the property.

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"What's this?!" Harlan said to himself. "Lorraine's the last person I expected to run into tonight. She's married! At least, she was the last time we talked. And, who's that cute, little redhead sitting next to her?" Harlan had never cruised the city's cougar dens to pick up women. Life was complicated enough with his job and the girls he was already dating.

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After everything they went through, Andi, Nicki, and Janis decided that sororities were not for them. Andi was glad that she "had what it took" to be in one of the finer sororities, but she had more fun just hanging out with the girls at the apartment. Nicki was as popular as ever with the boys, and she was only a sophomore. Her goals were already met, and the sorority was of no use to her.

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