Your erotic stories

Annabelle's cotton sheets have ducks on them. They're not made of as nice of a material as the satin I'm laying on now, but the ducks are so cute and so her. I can imagine Annabelle's face when she'd determined that I stood her up on New Year's Eve. I feel so horrible and so cold.

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My heart seems to falter when she walks in the bar. I vaguely hear my friend Samantha, who reluctantly dragged me out tonight, yell at me from a few feet away. I don't make any movement though. I am staring at what, until this moment, was only a dream. My friend finally fights her way over to me, muttering something about me being deaf and all I do is nod forward.

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I've just spent another long, hot afternoon in the garden and all I can think about is taking a shower to cool myself down. The garden looks great, but I'm a mess. Covered in dirt and sweat, I let myself into the back door and slip out of my gardening boots. I've rinsed myself off a bit with the hose but it's nowhere near what a shower could do for me.

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Dear Readers, Everything is going according to plan. -Steve For a minute, I couldn't help but stare at him. Shock washed over me, intermixed with hurt, as if a needle full of misery had been injected into my veins. Whatever had been built last night was beginning to crumble all around us. It was like watching the 1871 burning of Chicago and being powerless to stop the devastation as it swept across town.

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At 28 years old I hadn't been with a man for three years. The first two years after my husband died, I couldn't bare the thought of another man touching me. I felt like it was cheating. Jake wasn't supposed to die in that car accident. He was supposed to grow old and gray with me. Jake was gone and I knew I had to move on, but acknowledging this didn't make things any easier. Still, at twenty-eight I wasn't willing to spend the rest of my life alone.

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Rachel stood outside the door of the apartment. Her right hand moved up and down the side of her jeans, wiping off the wetness on her palm. Coming here... making the decision to be with her would end up hurting another. 'But it's how I feel... What I want!' She thought to herself.

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Anna's parents came from Europe. Her father was a tall blond from Poland and her mother a red-haired beauty from Ireland. Yet poor Anna was stuck with the wrong branch of the DNA. She was six feet and then some in her socks. Her face was plain with a broad forehead, long jaw and beaked nose. Most of her height was in her legs. She wore men's jeans with a 30 inch waist and 36 inch inseam. Her hair was neither blond nor red but a sad mixture resulting in a rough brown. Her height served her well in obtaining a volleyball scholarship to college where she majored in business.

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Television just wasn't cutting it. I couldn't get her off of my mind. I'd fallen right into the same routine I had every night. Beer and TV usually made me groggy quick, especially on a full stomach. One pull of a lever, and my aching feet were up and my hands were behind my head in the recliner. The same recliner where she had climbed into my lap without her panties and rode me like a stallion.

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Little Devil Chastity was dressed like a cheap whore. Short, black semi-sheer mini-skirt. Braless, she wore a too tight and too small, neon pink tube top that barely contained her boobs. Cheap costume jewelry and knee high faux leather black boots. Poofy blonde hair, overdone make-up and strong perfume. And underneath, lace, red crotchless panties. It made her feel like a slut. It made her feel liberated. It made her feel excited.

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It was as I was returning from a trip up to Manchester that I saw the sign: 'Stewartby Park Prestige Hotel'. I vaguely remembered hearing that the old place had been converted, some years after she died, but it hadn't really hit home to me until that moment. Before I'd even realised it I'd swung the car between the gate posts and started up that familiar wide, sweeping gravel drive, framed by rhododendron bushes. After a few hundred yards I rounded a corner and saw again the huge, sprawling former stately home I'd last set eyes on more than 30 years earlier, its crooked Tudor chimneys silhouetted against the afternoon sky.

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