Your erotic stories

Chapter 1 I hadn't set out to do it. I had never thought about it or planned such a thing. It just wasn't me, it was not my thing, well it had never been until then. Something must have changed, but was it with me, was it circumstances or what?

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Darla practically hammered on the door to the hotel room, her body shaking with anger. Jane was in there, Darla just knew it, so why didn't she just open the door and take her 'angry goth girl' medicine? She was hiding, that's what it was.

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Author's note: This story is true and I do not have the heart to tell the whole truth. Maybe one day I will. I am hoping people will enjoy it anyway. She was soft and warm, she had just had a shower. I loved the smell of her shampoo. She gestured her arm towards me and said 'Pillow?'.

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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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PRELUDE The four divorced women were gathered at Joan's house for an afternoon of Bridge. It had become a ritual that each Wednesday they would play cards in the morning, have lunch and then enjoy sex with each other. Each week they rotated the location so that each woman had an opportunity to host the group.

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It all started when my very dear friend Murthy had a stroke. But, let me start at the very beginning. I am Sekhar, a sixty year old successful professional consultant. Murthy, twelve years my senior and a long retired professor has been my dear friend of over forty years. I and my wife Sumana (58) live in our own comfortable three bed room apartment in a posh area of our city, our only daughter, married, lives in U.S.A along with her husband and son. Murthy is a widower having lost his dear wife about seven years ago.

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My name is Angeline Currie. You won't find that name in any history of Hollywood. In all the movies in which I starred from the '40s to the '60s, and the character roles I played in movies and on TV in the twilight of my career, I was billed quite differently. Not even my agent knew my real name but, trust me, if you heard my professional name you'd certainly know it.

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I enjoy working late. I am a transcriptionist, and can get more done when the hub-bub of a packed law office has quieted. One thing though, this old office building is about as tightly insulated as a bridge, and creaks as badly as my forty-mumble year old knees. I find myself getting up from my desk at least once an hour to see if somehow an earthquake hasn't hit, as my geology professor called it, the Laurentian Plateau.

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I woke up to the sound of someone pounding on my front door. I cracked open one bleary eye and checked the clock. Two in the goddamn morning. I wondered who the hell it could be this late at night. I'd just spent the past week putting in overtime at the office. There was a major client project going down, and while I wasn't team lead I did have a major part to play. That meant a lot of late nights and early mornings.

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The scent of cooked turkey still lingered in kitchens across America and the shops and stores were already decorated for Christmas; the coffee shop where Carol sat being no exception. Disconsolately sipping her latte, she didn't feel in a very celebratory mood. The promise of employment that had motivated her to leave home and move to the city hadn't materialized and now she was homesick, low on funds and still job hunting.

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