Your erotic stories

When she crossed over I-80, Nancy snuggled her lean frame into the soft leather that was wrapped around the driver's seat and kicked off her heels. The countryside and farms blurred beside her and she day-dreamed as the car continued its course, almost on autopilot, down I-57 towards Champaign, Illinois. She enjoyed these drives. They represented the only time during the week when she could shut down, block out the irritations of her life.

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I first noticed her on a grey November's day at the supermarket. As she loaded shopping into her car a huge bag of green apples fell from one of the carriers, hit the ground, split and fruit rolled everywhere; she must have been very fond of apples. Much of it tumbled, erratically in my direction, I scurried about gathering up the tumbling orbs and restored them to their somewhat flustered owner. I would never have looked at her twice, she could have been my mum but then she smiled and her face lit-up, rolling back the years in a trice.

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I don't know why I did it. Okay, that's a lie, do I know, at least I think I do. First of all, it's fun to be seen as a sex symbol. Not as a porn star, hell no. I'm not a slut. Okay, maybe a wanna-be slut, but I'm a good girl. I didn't go to a Catholic school, but I was raised Catholic and I still believe most of it, okay?

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I grew up in a very small farming community. It was understood that when kids were old enough to get jobs, we would go to work. At age 14, I started working summer vacations in a grain elevator, a warehouse where area farmers bring their harvested grain to be stored. The harvest lasted from late July until early September, and the daily temperatures were consistently hovering around one hundred degrees.

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Here’s a true story. They’re the best ­ I find reading about actual events even more exciting than reading fantasies. This all happened just before my 19th birthday. It may have been what sparked my interest in beautiful woman and all the things they do. I was living about half of each year at home with my parents in a large town in the West Midlands (England). I had a girlfriend, studying at university in Manchester, and I had a few casual girlfriends in my home town.

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He was laid to rest in the crowded little graveyard adjacent to the small Anglican church on the fringes of the Kyrenia Harbor in Cyprus. My mother had shown no interest in interring him in the States—or even in attending the burial ceremonial in Cyprus. But I thought that, in any event, this was a fitting place for him to be buried. This was where he belonged. He had taken his stand here and lived the last decade of his life here. I just wished I had been part of that last decade. Of course, that was as much my fault as it was his.

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I am not sure what motivated me. Was I just sick of guys my age? After all, they were immature. And especially, so I have been told, sexually immature. As a sophomore in college, I had only slept with four guys. Well, that is been fucked by four guys, I have fooled around with many others. In that time though I had never had a guy bring me to orgasm. Take a typical night with the last guy I fucked, Johnnie.

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It was Cathy, my girlfriend, who found me the flat. When my old landlord died, and his son served notice on the tenants, I needed somewhere cheap, and available quickly. Of course, the ideal thing would have been to move in with Cathy. But she shared her parents' old house in Bedford with her sister, and anyway, I'd tried commuting from there into London for a couple of weeks. The 'BedPan line' -- Bedford to St Pancras -- was legendary at the time as not so much a rail route, more a fiendish torture cunningly designed by the operator to drive unwary commuters insane.

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The last of our friends leave, which leaves us alone in her room and the entire house. I sit nervously next to her on the bed, and drink some of my beer. The only thing I can think about is what happened last night. I'm too embarrassed to bring it up, but she does it for me.

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When I was a kid my best mate was Dean Kelly. As so happens with these things, our mothers got to know each other when they would pick Dean and I up from school, and they too became friends. I would stay over at the Kelly's place and Dean would often stay over at our place. The Kelly's had a pool and so summers were always more fun at Dean's house! Dean and I were on the same touch football team as well and so our families started to go on outings with each other, such as picnics, hikes, football and cricket matches, and the occasional camping trip.

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