Your erotic stories

PRELUDE The door opened and Jake Connors entered the duplex that he owned. He headed for the kitchen in search of one of his tenants Rachel. Her husband George had already left for work. Jake found Rachel in the kitchen and she was starting to clean up after breakfast. He studied her shapely figure for a few minutes before he spoke.

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My eyes popped open as I heard the sound of a key working its way into the lock of my front door. I yawned and rubbed the sleep from my eyes before glancing over at the clock on the wall. "2:52," I muttered, slightly frustrated. I had expected Ashley to come home hours ago, and had apparently dozed off while waiting up for her to return.

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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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The summer after I graduated from college I crashed on my big sister Trish's couch for a few months. What else was I supposed to do? I had earned a bachelor's degree in anthropology, which translated to no money and no job prospects. She had a little house in the woods outside the town we grew up in, and she said I could stay there as long as I needed. She'd mentioned something about having a boyfriend, but I didn't realize until I got there that he was pretty much living with her.

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If you're driving along the motorway and feel like a break, I would strongly recommend Mudchute Services. They're fairly easy to find, right next to Brown Wood, and you'll find the toilet facilities make a very worthy detour.

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"329, 331, 333..." I muttered to myself, reading the numbers off the doors as I made my way down the narrow hotel hallway. I could almost hear the sound of my own nervous heartbeat over the quiet buzzing of a nearby ice machine as I pushed my hand into my pocket to pull out a folded, crumpled piece of paper. Cursing myself for the inability to calm my shaking nerves, I unfolded the small parchment and read the number scrawled upon it.

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It was the late 70s. I was in college and not old enough to drink legally, but looked old enough so that my ID was rarely checked. I worked as a cook in a steak house and my asshole manager, Newman, stalked into the kitchen after closing time and barked "There is some cunt asking about you in the bar. The only reason I didn't throw her out is because she is spending money. Go get rid of her and get your ass back here to clean up."

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Our small kitchen was a bustle of activity, my own rushed, anxious movements contrasting with Hanna's relaxed calm. She sat down at the small breakfast bar in her fluffy white robe and began to delicately segment her pink grapefruit, a cup of tea gently steaming beside her. As usual however I was running late, standing with a bowl of cornflakes in one hand and a spoon in the other, forcing mouthful after mouthful hurriedly down, all the while trying to avoid milky splashes on my shirt.

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Sixty two year old Wallace Stone wasn't from Saratoga Springs, he was just passing through on business. When after dinner he walked through the park and stopped near the little stage where an angry young man was singing angry songs, mercifully without benefit of amplification. Most of the couple dozen or so folks who were around the performer listening didn't seem much more interested than Wallace was, but the salesman didn't care about them.

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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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