Your erotic stories

I looked down between my shoes. I could see a candy wrapper and an empty firecracker casing floating in the dirty puddle between them. I reached down and picked them up, tossing them into an empty bag with the few kernels of kettle corn that I hadn't finished.

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Coming in from a long day of classes, I can hear the water in the bathroom running. I follow the sound and find you standing in the shower. The room filled with steam. The air thick with moisture. Your dirty clothes piled up in the corner, the mirror fogged over, a thin layer of fabric separating your naked body from mine.

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"Are you feeling stressed?" "Yes," I muttered to the screen. "Is life getting on top of you?" "Yes again," I sighed. "Well I can help you – with a spiritually uplifting Aromatherapy massage." "Why not?" I asked myself, looking at the screen again before reading on. "Provided by a fully qualified Masseuse ...."

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The first time Kevin Roach was mistaken for Tommy Ross he was in the White Lion. The mistake's maker approached him when he was at the bar, getting in a round of drinks for himself and his workmates. She had bobbed red hair and neat, pretty features and she wore a T-shirt displaying her allegiance to the rock band White Noise.

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Dee and I have been friends for several years. Her daughter is two weeks younger than my son, and we got together several times a week to have coffee and play dates for the kids from the time they were both about two years old. After a year or two of doing this, she shared with me that she'd been having an affair with a married man, starting shortly after she'd had her daughter.

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It was a cold, damp, gray Monday in the middle of November and Dan was doing what he usually does, driving from one city to the next in his Midwest sales territory. He had left his home in the Chicago suburbs that morning, made a stop in Rantoul, Illinois, and now was on the back roads traveling to Lafayette, Indiana. He liked traveling the back roads whenever he could, as he felt interstate driving was boring.

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