Your erotic stories

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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I slipped into my dorm room after my calculus class. Sunlight poured through the blinds in narrow streams that set the ambient dust aglow in the air. Tiny motes of golden light curtained the room, made it hard to see. I stumbled towards my bed, tripping over clothes and shoes.

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