Your erotic stories

It started on a mate's stag night/bachelor party, - whatever you know a bloke's traditional booze-up before his wedding as. A crowd of us hit the town, crawled the bars and eventually ended up at a lapdancing club, ahem, as you do. . . A good time was had by all, plenty of dances were bought, and the general agreement was what goes on the stag, stays on the stag.

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Prologue The Right Hon Mrs Grace de Vere Cobblehaugh sighed deeply. Mrs Cobblehaugh (pronounced "cobbler") was not happy. Yet why should this be? The heiress to the vast de Vere estate had every right to be content with her lot. After all, she was a beautiful, intelligent woman with a handsome, dashing husband. It was a glorious summer day in 1895, and the lawn outside her holiday cottage stretched down to a pretty little river.

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My boyfriend Tom got up and left. I was still panting when he quietly slipped out of my dorm room. Sweat lined my face, clung to my breasts. The moisture felt cool on my legs. Moisture between my legs felt cold on the edges and hot in the core. I glanced at the clock, hoping it wasn't really as late as it seemed.

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"The ocean is so beautiful. I wish I could stay out here all night." Cadence said, snuggling closer to her man. She sat and watched as the beautiful sunset was slowly dipping below the horizon. To her right the lifeguard was closing shop in his hut, leaving them alone on the beach. Most of the other people had already left; on occasion a couple would walk by, completely absorbed in each other.

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The following morning was almost a replay of the one before. I woke fairly early and drove over to Mom's hotel, letting myself into her room with the spare key, again. The drapes were not drawn shut as they had been yesterday, but stood open allowing the faint light of dawn to softly light the room.

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She woke up a little later than usual, her first reaction to check the clock. Before her heart could race at the thought of being late, she remembered it was a Saturday, and her next thought was of the night before, the smell of his cologne and sweat and cum drifting up from the sheets. Looking around, she wondered if he had left – a typical one-night stand – or if maybe he was just in the bathroom.

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One thousand, eight hundred, and seventy-one visible stars danced above his head in the sky, circling about, scintillating, putting on their constant ballet for all those below. Not for the first time, he wondered at how many intelligences he was staring. Millions? Trillions? Or perhaps it was zero.

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The bus is crowded during rush hour, and you get pushed toward the back, standing in the aisle, held up by the bodies pressed against you. You only wore a flimsy little cotton sundress that day because of the heat, but now you're starting to wish you had a little more clothing on. The heat wave in this city has lasted so long, you think people might be getting a little crazy, yourself included.

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When I first saw Peggy Sanford, she impressed me as a very prim and proper, classy, country club wife. After five minutes of conversation, the fact that she was married to a much older man who keeps her in a very comfortable but unsatisfied sexual lifestyle surfaced. She works and travels, not for money, but to escape the life that she has been trapped in for many years.

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The bitch shows up behind home plate again. Unbelievable. Second night in a row, she gets in the same seat and tries to fuck me up with her flashes of tit. She quickly yanks down one side of her tank top, flashes her boob, and tries to mess with my head. She doesn't even have great cans. We're not talking about centerfold or top-notch porn material here. More like porn you'd find on the lower shelves, like bottles of cheap vodka in a liquor store.

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