Your erotic stories

"Well," Tom sighed, "what other romantic songs do we have for Valentine's Day? More Dean Martin?" The little piano bar was more crowded than on some nights. It had been a shore day, St. Martin. No big production show tonight, just one of those juggling comedians that seem to find their way on to cruise ships. Washed up, like him, flotsam bobbing against the shoreline, but not quite, not quite stranded yet.

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Katie hummed to herself as she strolled down the hallway, her small arms holding a large basket of laundry braced against her stomach. As she reached to door to the laundry room, she pinned the basket to the wall as she dug for her key in her pocket. As she produced the tiny key, she lifted a knee to help her shaking arm bear the weight of the encumbering load as she struggled to slip it into the door. As the towering basket tipped to the side, a sock fell off onto the floor.

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It had been a hard week at work and I was looking forward to a relaxing weekend. I called my mate, Darren, and asked him if he fancied a drink on Saturday night so he suggested we have a drink in and I stay over at his place as his parents were away.

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I glanced around cautiously as I made my way up the narrow cobblestone path towards the imposing residence before me. Through the darkness of the night I could see the front door ajar, as a shaft of light spilled out over the front step accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of music and laughter coming from within. I began to wonder if I was making a mistake, but quickly dismissed the notion, silently scolding myself for such unfounded doubt.

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Kate lay on the bed, naked and asleep on her stomach with her left leg bent off to the side. Slowly her body nagged her into waking. She reached her arm out and felt only an empty pillow where her boyfriend, David, normally would be lying next to her. Suddenly something tickled the back of her right knee -- a feather-light touch of a pair of lips. The fog of sleepiness began to evaporate as David trailed light kisses up her leg.

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"Hi I'm Steve." The girl looked up quickly and turned slightly away, hands defensively covering her middle. She needn't have bothered. I had always liked curvy girls and when I had come around the corner of the narrow overgrown trail that led down the hillside to the secluded beach I had stopped to admire her.

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Alice van der Poole loved her boyfriend. Really, she did. Ben was perfectly handsome, perfectly sweet, perfectly... bland. Every kiss was preceded with a gentle, "May I kiss you?" and followed by a whispered, "You're so beautiful." At night, Ben would tell her how precious she was, how delicate and sweet and lovely. His fragile, perfect little rose. Alice wanted to scream.

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The parties that went on at 69 Brentwood Street were legendary. When Luke Prescott received the invitation email by Blackberry during his final year at NYU, he had high expectations. The house was a three-storey brownstone on the Upper East Side, and was being rented by three of the hottest girls in university. Kendra, Lacey and Chloe were commonly referred to around campus as 'The Babes on Brentwood.'

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I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to find a position in the hard wooden desk that wouldn't cause my ass to go numb. Just five more minutes. Five more minutes and then my weekend could begin. I hated Friday classes. They always seemed to drag on, and this one was no different. And to make matters worse, this particular lecture took place in the oldest classroom on campus, complete with hard wooden chairs circa 1904.

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There's this guy I work with, Jason. We don't actually work together - I'm in accounting, he's in shipping - but we run into each other fairly often, and for a while now we've been having lunch together a few times a week. We're sort of an unlikely pair, really. Jason is 23, I'm pushing 50, he's straight and I'm gay, he's a big sports fan, and I couldn't care less. Although, I do try to keep up on his favorite teams, just to be able to have a decent conversation with him if the subject comes up.

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